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WESTMINISTER ABBEY. (Frontispiece). 







THE 


BOY-LOLLAED: 


A TALE OF THE READERS OF TYNDALE'S 
NEW TESTAMENT IN THE TIMES 
OF HENRY VIII . 



REV. FREDERIC A. REED, A.M. 

AUTHOR OF “THE TWIN HEROES.” 



God strikes liis church ; but ’tis to this intent, 
To make, not marre her, by this punishment. 

Herrick. 


SEP 1^_883' 

No. 




V'/ASHIN'J' 


BOSTON": 

Congregational ^unliass^cfjool anlJ i^ublisljtng ^ocietg, 

CONGREGATIONAL HOUSE, 

COR. BEACON AND SOMERSET STS. 


A 


-yj y<)n 

{V oZ 




(Jopy right, 

1883 , 

i3Y CONGKEGATIONAL S. S. AND PUBLISHING SOCIETY 


ELECTROTYPED. 


BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 


No. 4 Peakl Street. 


PREFACE. 


rpHE BOY-LOLLARD is intended as a companion to “ The 
Twin Heroes.” It aims to bring before the reader men 
and women similar to those whose acquaintance he made in that 
book, and belonging to the same sixteenth centiiiy with them. 
The men Jind women of The Boy-Lollakd, however, lived in 
the reign of Henry VHI. — when passion was fast usurping the 
place of conscience, the little there was in his breast — instead of 
under the sway of his imperious daughter, Elizabeth. They lived 
during the period of the introduction of the first printed English 
New Testament amongst the people, instead of at a time further 
on when the results of its diffusion began to rij)en into the separa- 
tion of the church from the state. Therefore a more interesting 
and important chapter in the progress of religipus liberty in our 
fatherland is here opened. The writer has sought strict accuracy 
in respect to historical statements and manners and customs, and 
gives his authority for facts that are unusual. He has indulged in 
fancy to some extent only, for the better illustration of truth 
which he can conscientiously say underlies this narrative. Grateful 
to the many readers of what he had taken pleasure in writing 
about the Separatists of England, he now bespeaks their attention 
to what he has with equal enjoyment penned concerning their 
predecessors, who read and circulated in England the New Testa- 
ment, translated for the first time from the original Greek by 
William Tyndale, and sowed the seeds for the subsequent harvest 
of religious freedom. 


Hakvaeu, Mass. 


F. A. R, 


NOTE. 


Since these sheets went to press, and while they were awaiting the 
binder, their author was suddenly and most unexpectedly called Home. 
He had revised all the proofs, selected the scenes to be illustrated by 
engravings, and completed his part of the book. Within a week he 
accidentally fell by the breaking of a step-ladder and broke his hip. 
Full confidence was had in his recovery; but on Saturday, June 8, 
soon after his dinner, he spoke of feeling ill, and almost immediately 
expired. The reader of this volume has, therefore, the last thoughts 
and the last work of its writer. It is due to his memory to insert 
here, directly after his own preface, some brief record as an entrance 
tablet to his final field of labor. 

Mr. Reed was born in Boston, Dec. 9, 1821; was graduated at 
Amherst College, 1843, and at Bangor Theological Seminary, 1846i 
He was pastor of the Congregational Church in Cohasset nineteen 
years; in East Taunton ten years; and, since 1880, in Harvard. He 
was of Huguenot blood, and had all the delicacy of taste and tender- 
ness of spirit of his ancestry. He was beloved by all who knew him, 
and never provoked a personal hostility. He had a strong love of 
historical studies; and his warm sympathy, especially with the martyr 
saints of England, induced him to attempt to enkindle a like interest 
in the present descendants of the English Separatists. He had gathered 
from and studied all possible sources of information, and twice visited 
the localities of their hiding-places, imprisonment, and death to 
verify the descriptions in his tales. 

The first product of his studies was a historic tale, “The Twin 
Heroes,” published by this Society in 1875. It aimed to picture the 
trials of the Separatists under the reign of Queen Elizabeth. His 
second volume is here just issued, “ The Boy,-Lollard.” It describes 
vividly some of the effects upon English society of introducing 
Wyclif’s and Tyndal’s translations of the Bible in the early years 
of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. 

It is only the truth that no other writer for the young has so 
honestly, thoroughly, and attractively reproduced those vital periods 
of English church history. Mr. Reed had planned and begun another 
volume to connect these two periods, and thus give ©ur Sunday- 
schools a continuous sketch of the rise of the Pilgrim churches in 
England. But some other pen must write the now unfinished tale. 
Mr. Reed left in manuscript a “Sketch of Robert Browne,” the 
for-a- while leading Separatist; to whose career he had given a long, 
patient, and thorough study. It ought to be published, as necessary 
to give a full idea of the straits through which our Congregational 
history steered its way. 

When so few are led both by abilities and tastes to present in 
attractive story to the young the early progress of English society 
under the influence of the Bible, and the deeds of the noble men and 
women who stood for liberty of faith, even unto death, it is an 
irretrievable loss that one so skilful pen has dropped suddenly from 
the fingers before its best work is done. Yet it is a gain that it has 
written and left as its legacy two such volumes for the children of 
those grand “ witnesses for Jesus and the Word of God.” 


M. B. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. Found 
II. Homeward 

III. Reception 

IV. Training 

V. A Companion 

VI. Discussion 
VII. Scruples 
VIII. A Contrast 

IX. Defection 

X. Arrival 

XI. Commotion 
XII. Gypsies 

XIII. Audacity 

XIV. Exposure 

XV. Punishment 

XVI. Lollards 

XVII. Pursuit 

XVIII. Protection 

XIX. Encouragement 

XX. Revelation 
XXI. Terror 

XXII. Monks and Court Reformers 
XXIII. Steadfast . 

XXIV. Ampthill Castle 
XXV. Treason and Loyalty 
XXVI. Retribution 
XXVII. Desperate . 

XXVIII. A New Revelation 
XXIX. Changes 
XXX. Rest for Awhile 


PAGE 
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. 16 
. 21 
. 27 

. 35 

. 42 

. 49 

. 66 
. 63 

. 72 

. 81 
. 89 

. 100 
. 108 
. 121 
. 130 
. 141 
. 163 
. 162 
. 172 
. 186 
. 199 
. 210 
. 221 
. 233 
. 244 
. 257 
. 271 
. 282 
. 293 


/ 

) 



THE BOY- LOLLARD. 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


CHAPTER I. 


FOUND, 


Yet by his countenance well may we see 
His birth with his fortune could never agree. 


Old Ballad. 


Y tale commences when Henry VIH. had sat on the 



throne of England twelve years and about six 
months. On the afternoon of an October day, in 1521, a 
courtier passed out at the palace gates of the Tower of 
London who was treated with marked deference by the 
brilliant crowd around him. He was a little below the 
ordinary stature, but well proportioned, and not far in 
middle life. His dress consisted of a full doublet or jacket 
of black velvet, with large sleeves to the ruffled wrists ; a 
cloak of black damask equally full, with loose hanging 
sleeves ; tightly-fitting hose of embroidered satin ; broad 
rolling collar of fur of sable; and jeweled cap bordered 
with an ostrich plume. There was, however, in his attire, 
and especially his gait, a carelessness contrasting oddly 
with his splendid appearance. 

The courtier had left the tower behind him, and was pick- 
ing his way leisurely in the mud, when he was joined by a 
gentleman neatly though plainly clad in a russet suit. 

“ Ah, Master Clement,” said the former, in a low, pleas- 
ant voice, “ I rejoice to see thee, and turn my face toward 
home, which would that I had never been persuaded to 
leave even for a king’s palace.” Then, after a pause, he 
exclaimed with some impatience, “ Meseems, Master Clem- 


11 


12 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


ent, this brave gear becometh me not, so that I sit at court 
as awkwardly as one who never rode before sitteth on a 
saddle” 

“ Nay, Sir Thomas More,” was the reply, “ it becometh 
you better than the other courtiers, methinks, sith you 
better deserve royal favor, which may you alway enjoy.” 

“ The favor of kings,” he rejoined, in almost a whisper, 
“ is transitory.” Then turning around and fixing his keen 
gray eyes on Tower Hill, he removed his cap and disclosed 
an intellectual forehead, over which hung a few locks of 
dishevelled hair. “ To-morrow,” he continued, “ this 230or 
head, in lieu of wearing foolish ornaments, may be laid upon 
tlie block.” He then hummed to himself some Latin lines 
of his own to those who trust in fortune. A few of them 
will be given as translated : — 

“ But Lord! how he doth think himself full well 
That may set once his hand upon her wheel. 

He holdeth fast; but upward as he sty’th, 

She whipp’th her wheel about, and there he li’th.” 

‘‘ By your leave, good Sir Thomas,” said the other, laugh- 
ing, “ your honored head is reserved for no such fate. Sith 
his highness received you into his friendship after you had 
written so plainly in the ‘ Utopia ’ touching the duties of 
kings, methinks he can never be angered by your counsels.” 

The courtier having rej^laced his cap, the two turned 
down one of the narrow streets that led to the Thames. 
Their attention was now arrested by the sound of blows and 
of a child’s voice that came from the lowest story of a build- 
ing which they were passing. The voice was so earnest that 
they could not but stop and listen. 

“ Thou art not my mother,” it cried ; “ thou knowest it 
well enow. I heard thee say so this very morn.” 

“ Hush ! ” replied a woman’s voice, in a pleading tone, 
“ or some one will hear thee.” 

“ I will not hush,” rejoined the child’s voice, “ till thou 
takest me to my mother. I say thou art not my mother.” 


FOUND. 


13 


“ Hush ! ” again replied the woman’s voice, angrily, “ oi- 
l’ll throttle thee so thou’lt ne’er speak again.” 

The outer door of the house being open, the listeners 
entered, and found themselves in a room where stood a 
woman, dressed in finery that seemed unfit to one of her 
condition, holding a boy about ten years of age firmly with 
one hand while she was trying to stop his mouth with the 
other. There was a striking contrast between her features, 
which could boast of a coarse style of beauty, and the re- 
fined features of the boy. Taking her hands from him as 
soon as she noticed the presence of the strangers, she cow- 
ered before them trembling with fright. But in an instant, 
recovering herself, she dropped a low curtsy, and said : — 

“ It is not for the like o’ me to stun delicate ears with my 
racket. May I ask Avhat is your will, gentle sirs ? ” 

Without giving her any reply, the courtier bade the lad 
come to him ; who readily obeyed, and exhibited to his keen 
gaze a beautiful countenance, jiossessing a broad forehead, a 
sweet expression of the eyes, and a sensitive mouth. 

“Now tell me, my lad,” he asked, “why thou art not 
willing to call this woman mother.” 

“ Sithence, sir,” was the reply, “ I overheard her say this 
very morn that some one else is my mother.” 

Noticing that the woman had raised her hands as though 
in the greatest astonishment, the questioner bade her be 
silent, and inquired of the child to whom she had said this. 

“ To her husband, sir. When I was in my bed I heard 
them quarreling in the room where they slept, which was 
next to mine. ‘ I’ll leave thee,’ quod she, ‘ once for aye, and 
find his mother and give back her child.’ ” 

“ Oh, the monstrous wickedness to disown one’s own flesh 
and blood ! ” she exclaimed, raising her hands. 

“Again I bid thee be silent,” he said, authoritatively- 
“ Hath she ever unwittingly uttered the like before thee, my 
lad?” 

“ Once or twice, after her husband hath been beating her. 


14 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


“ Canst remember aught of any other woman whom thou 
didst call mother ? ” 

“ Ay, sir ; I trow I can just remember calling a beautiful 
lady mother.” 

“ Didst thou theii know this woman ? ” 

“ I did, sir, and called her nurse till she took me out to 
walk a long, long way, and brought me to strange people.” 

“And hast lived with them ever since?” still inquired 
the courtier, admiring the straightforward answers of the 
boy. 

“Ay, sir, and she hath taught me to call one of them 
father and herself mother.” 

“ Hast heard a name given to these people ? ” 

“ Gypsies, sir.” 

It was well known that a roving band called gypsies had 
emigrated to England in the early part of that century, or 
the latter part of the previous one;* and that they had 
borne the reputation of stealing children and adopting them 
as their own.f “Woman,” he demanded, “ didst thou steal 
this child?” There was an intelligence in the calm gray 
eyes fixed upon her, and a resolution in the peremptory 
voice, that caused her to quiver with terror. 

“ O sirs,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands, “ drag not a 
poor woman to prison. In sooth, sir, the beautiful lady was 
not his mother. I swear it by the holy saints. I swear it 
by the blessed Virgin,” — 

“ Silence, woman ! ” interrupted the same voice, “ thou 
must go before the magistrate.” 

The courtier now scanned the face of the child. It 
seemed to call up to his mind some reminiscence sweet and 
sad, for there was a watery film over his gray eyes when 
he cried : — 

“ Ah, Master Clement, methinks this face hath a strange 
power over me ! Doth it remind thee of any one? Nay, 
what a dolt am I ! ’Tis a person thou didst never see, I 


* Simson says 1512, but that they may have arrived earlier. Brown says 1480. 
t Simson’s “History of the Gypsies,” page 9, etc, 


FOUND. 


15 


trow. But what is this ? ” Noticing a book in the lad’s 
pocket he took it out, and began to examine it. “ Woman,” 
he asked, in sterner accents than he had yet used, “ didst 
thou steal the child to teach him heresy ? ” 

More terrified than ever, she threw herself on her knees, 
and was begging for mercy. 

But the courtier, not regarding her, said, “ Master Clem- 
ent, this is the Gospel of St. John, translated into English by 
the notorious heretic, Wickliffe. It is marvelously done.” 
He looked admiringly at the handwriting, for he held in his 
hand a manuscript. 

“ Ay, Sir Thomas, for a thing that is so ill,” replied his 
companion, fastening his eyes upon the pages. But in a 
moment the former looking up, exclaimed, “ The woman is 
gone!” The door just back of her they had not noticed, 
and she had managed to slip out without being observed. 
Master Clement started to follow her, but the courtier for- 
bade him, saying, “ She hath as many hiding-places as there 
are lies on her tongue.” Then, taking the lad by the hand, 
he stepped out of the building, and called one of the city 
watch — it being now dusk — who, with a profound obeis- 
ance, promised to find and arrest the woman immediately. 


CHAPTER II. 


HOMEWARD, 


But noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen, 
1 will divulge thy glory unto men. 


John Taylor, the Water Poet. 


FTER a short walk they readied the river. Descend- 



iiig some stairs they passed through a water-gate and 
entered a six-oared barge. Instantly, at the command of 
the courtier, they started, six blue-coated servants plying 
the oars. Passing by other barges and vessels of all sorts 
which were decorated with flags of the gayest colors, and 
giving and receiving courteous salutations, they proceeded 
to the middle of the stream. As soon as they began to 
direct their course homeward, the oars with vigorous 
stroke kept time to a melody the servants were singing. 
The ancient chorus, — 


*‘Heue and how rombelow,’’ 


was caught up by the oarsmen of neighboring vessels ; and 
it mingled with comic songs, and divers strains from instru- 
ments, and conversation, and laughter, from gentlemen and 
ladies on board. The delight expressed on the boy’s face 
interested and amused the courtier and his companion. 
Leaving the city behind them, with its various craft, the 
noisy merriment gradually died away. At length they 
floated alone upon the water. There was not a sound save 
the dipping of the oars. The river was disturbed by scarce 
a ripple, and the sky seemed more serenely blue than usual. 
A calm satisfaction breathed from the face of the lad, which 
the courtier observed, and smiled. 


16 


HOMEWARD. 


17 


“Well, my lad,” said he at length, “I am taking thee 
home with me, where thou wilt have all the music thou 
cravest, and wilt never lose sight of this sweet river. Art 
willing to take me for thy master ? All fare well with me 
but heretics.” The boy looked up confidingly into those 
pleasant gray eyes, which, however, were visited by a 
shadow as he uttered the last words. “Thou mayest have 
had wrong instruction, but that can be remedied, I wot. I 
will find thee a place amongst my servants, and Meg shall 
teach thee thy letters and thy accidence. Mayhap she will 
make a scholar of thee.” 

A voice behind them uttered a deep groan. The lad 
looked around, and saw for the first time a person sitting 
cross-legged on one of the benches. 

“ Ah, fool,” demanded the courtier, “ what is the matter 
with thee ? ” 

“I am pitying poor Meg, an he is as hard to learn his 
letters as thy son John was,” he replied, pausing and em- 
phatically ducking his head after each clause of the sen- 
tence. A red rose and a white one were stuck in his cap, 
having on its brim a shield with a cross and a seal pendant ; 
a cross, attached to a black string around his neck, dangled 
before him ; and a broad girdle of leather, in which rested 
the thumb of his left hand, clasped his waist.* 

The courtier laughed, but without giving an answer 
began again to examine the manuscript, which he still held 
in his hand. It was well for the boy the courtier did not 
see his longing look now fastened upon it. As he read, the 
shadow revisited his eyes, and turning to his companion he 
said, “ Master Clement, the poisonous plant of Wickliffe’s 
translation hath not been uprooted by the statutes of 1401 
and 1417 against it, the first requiring death at the stake, 
and the second denying — what is allowed to robbers and 
murderers — the right of sanctuary.f On the other hand, 
meseems this same deadly plant hath spread marvelously in 

♦ Roper’s “ Life of Sir Thomas More,” 1822, p. 167. 
t Conant’s “English Bible,” 103, 


18 


THE BOY^-LOLLARD. 


English soil. Alack, Master Clement, the writings of this 
arch-heretic, together with those of the apostate monk, 
Luther, are much read in our day, and are making the 
Lollards as thicks as ants.” 

“ Now, Heaven forefend. Sir Thomas,” replied the other, 
“and grant that the book of his highness on the seven 
sacraments bring Luther with all his emissaries to naught, 
sith his highness there answereth him fully.” 

“ Amen ! ” chimed in the courtier, devoutly ; but his gray 
eyes had a scornful expression as he went on, “ nathless, royal 
threats, to which the king in his great clemency loveth not 
to resort, will be more effective, methinks. The ignorance 
of these heretics is much more harmful than that of those 
monks and friars who say ‘Erasmus laid the egg and Luther 
hatched it;’ and who would gladly tie Erasmus and his 
unworthy friend, Thomas More, to the same stake with that 
arch-heretic.” 

“And when they have burnt ye three,” said the fool, 
ducking his head as he went on, “ the monks and friars and 
Lollards will grow so much worse that good King Harry 
will make a big fire and throw them all in together, and I 
shall be made chief counsellor of the realm, and England 
will be merry England once more.” 

The courtier and his companion now seated themselves 
and conversed earnestly together, while the lad, standing at 
some distance from them, glanced uneasily at the manu- 
script. Soon the fool capered to him and whispered, 
“Methinks, Master Unknown, thine eyes are oftener on 
yonder thing than mine would be an it had been taken 
from me.” 

The boy looked up into his distracted yet kindly face, but 
said nothing. 

“ Kennest thou not it will be thrown into the flames, and 
thou with it, an thou lookest at it thus ? ” 

Feeling instinctively that he could safely speak, the boy 
said in a low, earnest tone, “ Oh, don’t let the good gentle- 
man burn it. Please get it for me,” 


HOMEWARD. 


19 


“Ho, ho, ho!” replied the fool, nodding emphatically, 
“ vellum burns quick, but flesh and bones burn slow.” 
An expression of terror flitted across his face, and then he 
skipped toward his master with a jocose remark the boy 
did not hear. But soon he skipped back, and noticing tears 
in the boy’s eyes, he himself began to whimper. 

“O sir,” pleaded the boy, “do not let him burn it. I 
trow it was my mother’s.” 

“ Thy mother’s, quotha,” said the poor fool, sadly. “ I 
was as thou, methinks, when I had a mother ; and this was 
hers,” — pressing the cross attached to the string around 
his neck to his lips. 

At this moment the two gentlemen approached them, 
and the courtier exclaimed delightedly, “ Here we are at 
home. Master Clement, where there will be for awhile a 
gentle riddance to this gear which Heaven forefend I should 
ever get used to.” The barge now made its way to a land- 
ing-place ; and soon all ascended some stairs, and walked 
through an avenue with a high wall on each side, until they 
came to a mansion about a hundred yards from the river. 
Of all the mansions that studded the banks of the Thames 
from London to Chelsea there was none more inviting, as we 
may suppose from its distinguished occupants afterward, 
royalty itself having resided there.* They were about 
entering when the courtier exclaimed, — 

“ Marry, where is the book ! ’Twas not a moment sithence 
I held it in my hand. I must have left it in the barge, or 
dropped it on our way hither. I ought to be racked for my 
carelessness.” 

They instantly went back, but could not And it. The 
servants declared they had not seen it; but a couple of 
strangers had just passed, who possibly might have stolen it 
or picked it up. Their master gave orders to go after them, 
and bring back either the book or them. 

* “The Household of Sir Thomas More,” Appendix, p. 237. Walford’s “Old 
and New London,” pp. 5, 58. 


20 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“ Faith, Master Clement,” said he, as they returned to the 
house, “this cometh from that absence of mind which I 
sometimes indulge in to my cost.” 

The two gentlemen, the boy, and the fool now 2:)assed into 
the house. 


CHAPTER III. 


RECEPTION. 


One face, one voice, . . . and two persons. 


Shakspeare. 



ELL-A-DAY, Master More ! carest tlioii not tliy 


» I whole household and a worshipful company have been 
kept waiting this half-hour ? ” 

These words came from a coarse-looking woman, dressed 
neatly but with little ornament, who had bustled into the 
hall on their arrival. The in>patient expression on her 
features — which in their best state were not pleasing — 
changed to positive displeasure Avhen she saw the boy. 

“ What the good-yer ! ” she exclaimed, “ hast not children 
enow of thine own, — though not one of them is mine, — 
and servants a-plenty, that thou must bring to me other 
folks’ brats, and cast-off ones at that ! Pah ! ” Noticing 
that his dress, though in the fashion of the time, was not 
perfectly w'hole or cleanly, she turned up her nose scorn- 
fully. 

“Fret not thyself, sweet wife,” replied her husband, 
“ an thou take him for dear pity ; he shall cause thee little 
trouble, for Meg shall have the care of him.” 

“ Ho, ho. Dame Alice ! ” laughed the fool, ducking his 
head as he was wont, “ thou and thy husband are looking at 
two different things.” As he spoke he stepped back, for 
the irate temper of the lady had sometimes manifested itself 
by a box on the ear. 

“ What meanest thou by that. Master Impertinence ? ” 
she demanded. 

“ That thou art looking at the clothes. Dame Alice, while 
he is looking at the lad,” replied the fool. “ The clothes are 


21 


22 


THE BOY-LOLLABE. 


old and rusty, but the lad is young and fresh. The 
clothes will be food for flames, mayhap, but the lad will not 
be burned unless he prove a heretic.” Here a frightened 
look flitted across his face. “ The clothes have no feeling, 
but the lad weeps.” The fool wiped his eyes. 

“ Thou art naught but clothes,” she rejoined, scornfully. 
Then turning her sharp look from the fool, and fixing it on 
the little stranger, it became somewhat mollified, for he was 
shedding tears. “ Alack ! ” she exclaimed, “ is the lad with- 
out mother or friends ! ” Immediately calling a servant, 
she bade him wash thoroughly* the newcomer, and find 
some clean garments to put on him ere he brought him to 
the supper-table. 

The servants who had been sent after the two strangers 
in quest of the missing book, — as related at the close of the 
last chapter, — soon came back with them; but the latter 
were dismissed after a fruitless examination of their persons, 
to which Sir Thomas More obliged them to submit, in spite 
of their ^protestations of innocence. 

“ Certes,” he said, “ the arch-fiend hath spirited it away 
and put it into the hands of one of his subjects; mayhap 
one of the heretics.” 

Nothing could be ascertained concerning the parentage 
of the lad. The woman from whom he had been taken, 
and whom he persisted in calling nurse, could not be found. 
He was called Hal, as that was the name he had borne 
amongst the gypsies. 

Having been an inmate of this new home a few days the 
lad was walking in the garden that joined the house when 
the fool suddenly appeared, and capering before him beck- 
oned to him to follow. Going to the wall which bounded the 
garden on one side, he removed a loose stone, and bade him 
look into the aperture. Hal obeyed, and to his great joy saw 
the lost manuscript. He thrust in his hand to take it, when 
the fool drew him back, and, nodding emphatically, whis- 
pered “burn, burn, burn ! ” Then, with a look of terror, he 
replaced the stone. “ Thy mother, quotha,” he said, sadly. 


RECEPTION. 23 

as he led him away ; and, taking the cross in his hand, he 
began to weep. 

The numerous Lives of Sir Thomas More, especially that 
charming one of William Roper, his son-in-law, and that 
other of Thomas More, his great-grandson, — or rather 
Cresacre More, brother of Thomas, w^ho is now considered 
its author, — render us familiar with his domestic life. The 
knight had at this time been twice married, the present 
Lady More being his second wife. A widow seven years 
older than liimself when he married her, she possessed but 
few attractions, if any, mental, physical, or pecuniary. 
Though something of a scold, yet she was not without good- 
nature and economy, and she proved to be a kind mother-in- 
law, on the whole, and a prudent housekeeper. It is said that 
he first solicited her to marry a friend of his, but she re- 
plied, “ Thou mayest speed if thou but speak in thine own 
behalf,” when, with that friend’s consent, he concluded to 
marry her himself. His first wife was a more amiable 
person, and under his training a better companion intellec- 
tually, though an uneducated country girl when he married 
her. The oldest of three sisters, his preference was for the 
one next to her in age ; but he waived it lest the head of 
the trio should be mortified by seeing the younger chosen 
instead of herself. Preceding these two instances of mar- 
riage, there seemed to have been a genuine love affair, result- 
ing in disappointment, which may have caused his strange 
matrimonial course. Amongst his Latin poems is one about 
his falling in love with a maiden when he was sixteen and 
she was fourteen, which he addressed to her twenty-five 
years afterward, when they chanced to meet again, only a 
few months before he saw Hal. The following are some of 
its lines as translated : — 

“ Now on my memory breaks that happy day, 

When first I saw thee with thy mates at play : 

On thy white neck the flaxen ringlet lies. 

With snow thy cheek, thy lip with roses vies. 


24 


THE BOY-LOLLARD, 


Tliine eyes, twin stars, with arrowy radiance shine. 

And pierce and sink into my heart through mine. 

Struck as with heaven’s own holt, I stand, I gaze; 

I hang upon thy look in fixed amaze ; 

And as I writhe beneath the new-felt spear. 

My artless pangs our young companions jeer.” 

The affection was mutual, but, as he says ; — 

“ The duenna and the guarded door 
Balfled the stars and bade us meet no more.” * 

When Sir Thomas first set his eyes upon Hal this beautiful 
girl, his first and only love, invested with all the cliarms an 
ardent youthful imagination had given her, stood before him. 
Was it one of those striking resemblances he sometimes 
noticed between persons not at all related to each other? In 
the brief interview he had recently had with her she in- 
formed him that she had lost her only child in very distress- 
ing circumstances. 

The household of Sir Thomas More was at that time com- 
posed of his children by his first marriage, — Margaret, 
Elizabeth, Cecilia, and John; — whose ages ranged from 
twelve to fifteen ; f of Lady More’s daughter by her first 
marriage, — Margaret Middleton ; of an orphan whom he 
had adopted at the time of his second marriage, — Margaret 
Giggs ; of the son of the king’s attorney-general, William 
Roper, who was fellow-student with Margaret More; and of 
a numerous body of servants, male and female. 

Margaret More found to her surprise that Hal had learned 
his letters, had read a few books, and had even a knowledge 
of Spanish, being able to sing very sweetly some ballads in 
that language. She learned from him that he must have 
been stolen from his mother — as he thought — when about 
four years of age, and that the wife of the captain of the 
gypsies was a Spanish lady of some education. It was not 

* Cayley’s “ Memoirs of Sir Thomas More,” vol. I, pp. 268, 269. 
t Seeboru’s “ Oxford Reformers,” p. 497. 


RECEPTION. 


25 


long before she began to teacli him the rudiments of Latin. 
For a boy his feelings were so unusually ardent, though not 
at all demonstrative, as almost to excite merriment on her 
part, while they drew her toward him. Tenderly attached 
to her a word of praise would cause his face to flush with joy, 
or a word of blame would bring swift big tears to his eyes. 
Lady More soon took a fancy to him, since he gave lier no 
trouble, and had a facility for doing errands. He was, of 
course, quite a favorite of Sir Thomas, who expressed pleas- 
ure at the progress he was making in his studies ; occa- 
ionally, wdien alone with him, examining his face and listening 
to his voice in singing. 

When the spring came Hal had a little patch of ground 
assigned to him for raising flowers, which chanced to be 
close to the wall where his precious manuscrij:)t lay con- 
cealed. Having seldom dared to look at it during the 
previous months he now examined it daily. When thus 
employed the fool would sometimes steal upon him laughing 
“ho, ho, ho!” and then would say tenderly, “thy mother, 
quotha,” and press the cross to his lips; but, in a few 
moments, especially if there was the sound of footsteps, he 
would snatch the book from the lad, and quickly conceal it, 
whispering with a frightened look, and an emphatic nod at 
each repetition of the word, “burn, burn, burn ! ” The lad 
had learned to love this singular creature, naturally of ten- 
der sensibilities, and bright and witty, but whom some 
sudden calamity had evidently crazed ; pitying him when, 
according to a custom of that age, he was obliged to make 
sport for the entertainment of the household and guests, or 
be the butt of their ridicule. That the lad was indebted to 
him in some way for the manuscript he did not doubt, 
though no explanation had been given. 

Hal could understand but little of a part of a translation 
of the New Testament, written about 1380, more than one 
hundred and forty years before, — the language of which 
was then to a great extent obsolete. He had valued it 
chiefly because, as he supposed, it had belonged to his 


26 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


mother. It had been found on his person, since tlie nurse, 
who alternately beat and indulged him, often let him carry 
it in his pocket to please him. She herself could not read, 
but had for it a sort of sui^erstitious regard. And yet, 
tempted by the large price it would bring, she often threat- 
ened to sell it ; and was kejjt from doing so by the tears and 
entreaties of the boy, who felt that it was the only tie that 
bound him to his mother, and somehow its loss would pre- 
vent him from ever seeing her again. The whole of Wick- 
liffe’s Bible not far from the time of the translator cost 
about two hundred dollars.* Plis New Testament cost 
four marks and four pence, which sum was of so much 
greater value then than now it was considered sufficient 
salary for a curate. Poor people, at different times, gave 
for a single book of the Scrij^tures, or a part of a book, the 
savings of years. One gave a load of hay for a few chaptei’s 
of Paul’s Epistles.t Frequently but one person in a com- 
munity owned a part of the Sacred Writings, and he read 
it to his neighbors. Some, without owming such a treasure, 
could by frequent hearing, perhaps by borrowing, recite to 
others whole books from memory. To them was given the 
significant name of “ Biblemen.” 

* Strype’s “ Cranmer,” p. 116. 

t Fox, vol. II., p. 23. London, 1084. 


CHAPTER IV. 


TRAINING. 


And then the pages of my soul and sense, 
Love, anger, pleasure, grief, concupiscence. 
And all affections else, are taught to obey 
Like subjects, not like favorites to sway. 
This is my manor-house, and men shall see 
Here I live master of my family. 


Rakdolvh. 


AL’S duties as a servant in the household of Sir Thomas 



-J- More were neither numerous nor difficult. Beside 
working in tlie garden and doing errands he had little to do 
in that capacity. But he had peculiar opportunities, which 
he did not neglect, for mental, moral, and religious improve- 
ment. He learned to play on the lute, joining with the 
others on the flute, the viol, and the cithara. He committed 
to memory and sung several English ballads. He was 
taught to appreciate the poetry of Sir Thomas More, of the 
living poet Skelton, of Gower, especially of Chaucer, as it 
fell from the lips of his maiden teacher in soft and meas- 
ured cadence, followed by comments when its meaning was 
not comprehended. He heard Sir Thomas discourse upon 
the animals and birds of many kinds, speaking of their 
habits in the rooms where he kept them ; upon the flowers, 
cultivated and wild, directing attention to them in the 
garden and country; upon the stars jeweling the evening 
firmament, while with rapt and reverent brow he pointed 
them out from the top of an observatory near the house. 
He read the books adapted to his capacity belonging to his 
master’s excellent library; and he listened to many of 
them at table, as one read while the rest partook of the food, 
the head of the family asking questions or making remarks 
upon certain passages. He visited, once or twice a day, the 


27 


28 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


chapel at the end of the garden, as summoned by tlie bell 
at one of its corners to join in the devotions led by Sir 
Thomas. Tliat little building, with its pictures to conceal 
the nakedness of the whitewashed walls, its altar in wood, 
it small gilt tabernacle,* became as familiar to the lad as his 
own chamber. But there was another building of a differ- 
ent sort, not on the grounds, with which he was as familiar. 
It was one which the knight had hired for aged people 
who had not the means of support. Every morning Hal 
visited it to ascertain their needs for the day. Indeed, 
there was not a poor neighbor to whom he was not often 
sent with liberal presents of money or food. 

The beautiful order that reigned in this home was itself 
an education. It banished far away all strife and wrang- 
ling. Lady More, though she would occasionally break out 
into ill-tempered sallies, could not but be benefited by 
breathing such a peaceful atmosphere, striving — uncon- 
sciously it may be — after her husband’s ideal, as expressed 
in the following lines : — 

“ Far from her lip’s soft door 
Be noise or silence stern, 

And hers he learning’s store, 

Or hers the power to learn.” 

The servants had each their allotted task in the house, or 
the garden, or in music or study, — if they had a taste for 
either of the two last, — and were uniformly respectful to 
their superiors and obliging to each other. Though allowed 
innocent amusements and pleasant comj^anionship, cards 
and dice were denied them, the men occuj^ying one side of 
the house, and the women the other. The children were 
always engaged in useful study or harmless recreation ; the 
former their father called the meat, the latter the sauce. 
That he was a very gentle and tender parent we know from 
his own words. He says, — 


Audiu’s “ Life of Ifenry Vlll.,” p. 193. 


TRAINING. 29 

“ If I have flogged you at all it has been with the tail of 
a peacock.” 

“ To me that father hard of heart appears 
Whose eyes o’erflow not with his children’s tears.” 

A very remarkable instance in that age, when parental dis- 
cipline was usually severe. 

Such a wonderful household attracted many distin- 
guished visitors. Hardly an eminent foreigner landed on 
the shores of England without partaking of its hospitality. 
Many Englishmen of note, both in church and state, were 
often its guests. A select company gathered around tlie 
family board and hung upon the lips of one reputed the 
wisest of Englishmen. Partaking of only one dish, his 
gown awry so that one shoulder seemed higher than the 
other, his hands somewhat clumsy and coarse, his gray eyes 
sparkling with genius, he was an unfailing reservoir of 
learning, and wit, and fun. And yet, as his greatest admir- 
ers have acknowledged, — those who then shared his friend- 
ship and those who have since worshipped his memory, — 
he was not without grave faults. Beneath his quiet amiable- 
ness there was a stoical indifference in regard to life, its 
joys and sorrows, that sometimes betrayed itself in unseemly 
lightness of expression ; a scorn of what he deemed the 
errors of others, especially in religious matters, that revealed 
itself in severe satire whenever what was accounted heresy 
appeared ; and, perhaj^s, a fondness for singularity evinced 
in the carelessness of his dress and the oddity of his man- 
ners ; as well as self-conceit, and inordinate love of reputa- 
tion, shown in the obstinacy with which he clung to views 
he had once advanced. Moreover, beneath his enlightened 
intelligence so antagonistic to the ignorance, and his purity 
of manners so hostile to the vices, of the Catholic clergy, 
there was a superstitious and bigoted reverence for the 
traditions of the Catholic church that afterward led him to 
measures of extreme cruelty, if not falsehood and dis- 
honesty, toward those who discarded them, 


30 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


Three years passed away, during which time Hal had 
continued his studies with Margaret More, liaving become 
familiar with the manuscript, which, as the reader may 
remember, contained Wickliffe’s Gospel of John. Hut there 
was a book that could be read openly by those who were far 
enough advanced in the knowledge of Latin. Amongst 
these favored ones Margaret did not as yet place Hal. This 
book was the New Testament of Erasmus, translated from 
the original Greek into Latin, with notes, in 1516. It had 
met with great opposition from a large j^ortion of the 
Church all over Europe, but had been received with delight 
by the more devout, especially amongst tlie scliolars. One 
of the latter was Sir Thomas More, himself an intimate 
friend of Erasmus. But after a while Sir Thomas must 
have thought one of his household received detriment 
from the book. William Roper, after 2 )oring over it day 
and night all the time he could get from his studies, soon 
showed signs of thinking for himself. He gave to some 
passages of Scripture an interpretation different from what 
had been authoritatively announced by j^riests. He held 
discussions with his fellow-student, Margaret More, and her 
father, advancing views which made the former turn pale, 
and wliich the latter declared Lutheranism or Lollardy. 
Of tliis Hal was an ear-witness. He was an eye-witness 
also of the deep shadow settling over the calm features 
of both father and daughter, though with the latter 
it was often followed by a burst of tears. Evidently 
William Roper was a favorite of Margaret, and it was 
whispered they were betrothed ; but her father was becom- 
ing alienated from him. 

Elizabeth and Cecilia, younger sisters of Margaret, were 
pretty, bright-eyed girls ; and one afternoon, after having 
taken a walk, they returned home in high glee. It chanced 
that their father was then discoursing to the rest of the 
family and some of the servants, including Hal, upon an 
interesting moral subject. But according to his custom, he 
kindly stopped to ask his daughters what had pleased then; 


TRAINING. 


31 


SO much. They instantly began to talk very fast — each 
striving to outdo the otlier — about a handsome woman 
they had seen, who had told the fortunes of all the young 
people in the region. “Everybody is in love with her!” 
they exclaimed. Sir Thomas looked grave. 

“Beauty is God’s high gift,” he said; “fortunate is she 
who possesseth it, and blessed are those of us who gaze upon 
it. But the knowledge of the future is known only to God, 
and to his prophets to whom lie giveth it.” He then re- 
proved them for having aught to do with an imposter and a 
vagrant; but he did it so gently that their feelings were not 
at all injured. The adopted orphan, Margaret Giggs, after 
she had grown to womanhood, used to say, “that some- 
times she would commit a fault for the nonce to hear Sir 
Thomas chide her, he did it with such gravity, such moder- 
ation, such love and compassion.” * 

“ What fortune did she pretend to tell concerning ye both, 
my jiretties?” asked their father. They now hung their 
heads ; and when at length they unwillingly related it there 
was general laughter. Elizabeth was to marry a gypsy, 
who would i^i'ove to be a prince of the East ; and Cecilia 
was to wed a wandering minstrel, who would change into a 
great statesman from France, he having heard of her beauty 
and come to Chelsea in disguise. 

“ IIo, ho, ho 1 ” roared the fool, “if gypsies and minstrels 
fare so well, there’s a chance for me ; ” and he bowed low 
to Margaret Middleton (daughter of Lady More by a former 
marriage). But alas for him ! he came within reach of Lady 
INIore’s hand, which administered a smart box on the ear. 

Lady More’s tongue was now loosed ; and she berated 
the 2 :>oor girls without stint, and even did not spare her 
husband. 

“I marvel. Master More,” she said, “how such a wise 
man as you are can keej^ in your library books that put such 
silly notions into girls’ heads.” And she went off into a 


♦ JVIore’s “ Life of Sir TLoiuas More,” p. 59, 


32 


HE BOY-LOLLABD. 


tirade against romances, tedious to the listeners, — it would 
be I doubt not to the reader, — but which was hnally broken 
off by the summons to supper. 

There was a grove outside the garden, a favorite place of 
resort, where Hal used to retire with his manuscript when 
he could snatch a few leisure moments from time generally 
devoted by the household to study and manual labor, and 
therefore he would not be likely to be interrupted. A few 
days after the occurrence just related he had betaken him- 
self to this retreat, and was sitting on a rude bench under 
a tree, where he was reading the fourteenth chapter of 
John’s Gospel. The first three verses seemed blotted with 
tears ; and he thought a pale, sweet face was bending over 
the page, pressed close and lovingly against his : — 

14. BE not youre lierte afifraied: ne drede it, ye bileuen in god: and 
bileue ye in me, ^in the hous of my fadir, ben many dwellynges, if ony 
thing lasse I hadde seid to you, ^for I go to make redi to you a 
place, and if I go and make redi to you a place, eftsone I come and 
I schal take you to my silf, that where I am, ye be, ^and whidir I go ye 
witen : and ye witen the wey. 

The lad heard an exclamation, and, alarmed, raised his 
eyes, thrusting hastily his manuscript into the pocket of his 
doublet. A gayly dressed woman stood before him. In a 
moment Hal knew that it was tlie nurse. 

“Thou kennest me, sweet,” she said, looking tenderly 
upon him. “ Why, how you have grown, and how hand- 
some you are ! Thou kennest not how I have watched for 
thee, hoping to meet thee alone.” And she threw her arms 
around him in a paroxysm of affection, calling him by many 
endearing names. 

Hal expressed pleasure at seeing her, for he still felt for 
the woman a strong attachment; but when he addressed 
her as nurse her countenance changed. “Call me not 
thus,” she said angrily; “call me mother,” she continued, 
coaxingly, “ for I and thy father have mourned for thee 
sithence thou wast carried off by the cruel gentleman. Oh! 


TRAINING. 


33 


come away from liim, and the proud lassie with whom I have 
seen thee oft, and thou shalt be with thy old playmate, 
Zaida, who is prettier than any of the cruel gentleman’s 
daughters.” 

The boy shook his head decidedly. “It must not be. 
Sir Thomas More is not cruel ; he hath shown me naught 
but kindness. Kor is sweet Margaret More proud ; she is 
very patient with me, and affectionate. It would be un- 
grateful to run away.” 

“ But just think,” pleaded the woman, “ what a jolly life 
we lead ! Ko work, no study, no sermons, no prayers ! 
Here thou art tied to them all. Come, sweet Hal, and thou 
shalt do what thou jDleasest and go where thou likest. But, 
best of all, thou shalt have Zaida. Oh, come ! ” 

The appeal was not lost uj^on Hal, for the wild life of the 
gypsies had its attractions to him, as it has to all who have 
once tasted it ; and he had not forgotten his old affection 
for Zaida, who was the captain’s daughter. The woman, 
perceiving her advantage, put her arm caressingly around 
him with many tender words as though to help him to the 
decision. But the boy, who had not really wavered, replied 
in a firmer tone than before, “Nay, nay, I must not go. 
But tell me,” he asked eagerly, “ tell me, an thou lovest me, 
who was that beautiful lady from whom thou didst take me?” 

The woman looked disappointed, and frowned. “Who 
was she, quotha, who was she ? None of thine. Not a 
drop of her blood hast thou. I swear it by the blessed 
Virgin. Thou art mine, all mine ! ” Her anger suddenly 
changing to fondness she gave way to another paroxysm 
of affection. 

Hal did not find it in his heart to repel her ; for though 
supposing she had wronged him greatly he did not doubt 
she loved him. But was he sure that she had not spoken the 
truth ? Her solemn declaration that the beautiful lady was 
not his mother chilled the hope he had so fondly cherished. 
“ The manuscript,” he faltered, “ did not that belong to the 
beautiful lady?” 


34 


THE BOY-LOLLAIW. 


“It was that, tlien, thou wast reading!” she cried, ex- 
citedly. “ How earnest thou by it ? If the cruel gentleman 
seeth it in thy hands he’ll burn thee ! Give it me. I ken 
one wdio’ll pay for it gold.” She tried to snatcli it from his 
pocket; but at this moment there was the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps and voices, when she hastily took her 
dej^arture. 


f 


CHAPTER V. 


A COMPANION. 

The brook did convey his ashes to the Avon; Avon into Severn; Severn 
into the Narrow Seas; they into the main Ocean; and thus the ashes of Wycliife 
were the emblems of his doctrine which now is dispersed all the world over. 

Fuller. 

T he nurse had barely vanished when Margaret More 
appeared, accompanied by a young girl and a lad. The 
one was about his own age, of exceedingly modest appear- 
ance, with soft blue eyes ; the other was some three years 
older than himself, frank and easy in his manners, and hav- 
ing a round, laughing face. Hal had seen them several 
times at Chelsea with Margaret, but they had never spoken 
to him, though, as he thought, they once gave him intelli- 
gent, kindly glances after listening to something from her 
uttered in a low tone. Rising, and bowing low, he was 
about leaving, when Margaret said, “ Stay, Hal, that I may 
introduce my friends to thee. Master Christopher and 
Mistress Edith Monmouth, I will introduce you to my pupil, 
Hal.” Though excited from his recent interview with the 
nurse, and embarrassed by his servile suit of lamb’s fur, 
he speedily controlled himself, and returned their cordial 
greeting with a modest dignity that was natural to him. 
Margaret then led Edith Monmouth to the seat which Hal 
had just left, and they both sat down, Edith nestling close 
to her older companion with a sort of reverential fondness. 
But Christopher, who seemed to have no such fondness for 
her, continued a discourse of playful raillery which had 
been broken off evidently by the interruption, on what he 
termed the selfish love of girls. “Here have I been walk- 
ing with ye both,” said he, “ a good half-hour by the clock, 
but not a word spoken to me from either of ye. Now re- 


36 


THE BOY-LOLLATtI). 


ceive your condign punishment.” And lie began to apply a 
slender switch he held in his hand to the shrinking shoul- 
ders of the fair ones before him. 

“Master Christopher,” said Margaret, laughing, as he 
paused for a moment, “ we plead guilty to the charge, and 
beseech thee to be merciful ; and as we shall probably con- 
tinue to commit the same offence we will excuse thee from 
further waiting on us at j^resent. Thou wilt find Hal a con- 
genial companion I wot. As for Edith and myself, we have 
some very im 2 )ortant secrets to communicate to each other 
with which lads must not intermeddle.” 

“ Treason ! hatching treason ! or, what is worse, heresy ! ” 
he retorted, using his switch. “ If the latter, by my hali- 
dom. I’ll have ye before the cardinal, and naught would 
please him better.” 

“ See thou keep thyself from heresy. Master Christoi^her,” 
said Margaret, bending on him a serious look, visited by a 
scarcely percej3tible shadow, “and thou tell it not to Hal, 
withal, for he is a strangely susceptible lad, or I’ll have thee 
before Sir Thomas More.” 

“How, Heaven forefend,” rejdied Christoi^her, his face 
slightly sobering for an instant, “ I’d rather meet the cardi- 
nal. But come, Hal,” he went on, “ let’s leave these femi- 
nine i^lottcrs to themselves, esi)ecially my wise monitress. 
Mistress Margaret, and take a turn in the garden.” 

The two came back from their walk acquainted with each 
other; and as the visit was rej^eated often, and was ahvays 
attended by a stroll together on their j^art, they became ere 
long fast friends. Christopher was a j^lump, frank, jovial 
lad, just such a comi^anion as Hal had been longing for; 
while Hal’s delicate, refined nature and mysterious history 
pleased and interested Christoj^her. One day they were 
passing by the wall where his treasure was concealed, when 
Hal, without saying a word, removed the stone, took out 
the manuscript and handed it to Christopher. The amaze- 
ment of the latter was indescribable; and it was not lessened 
after Hal had given him a brief explanation. 


A COMPANION. 37 

“ How didst thou dare reveal thy secret to me ? ” asked 
Christopher. 

“ Sithence, Master Christopher,” was the reply, “ Mistress 
Margaret looked at thee suspiciously when she warned thee 
against heresy.” 

“And did I not heed her?” he asked, turning his round, 
jovial face upon his younger companion. “Make a heretic 
out of me an thou canst, Hal, for Mistress Margaret’s warn- 
ing hath been ringing in my ears whenever I have been 
with thee, keeping my lips prudently closed on some 
matters.” 

“ Thy silence hath told as much as thy speech would have 
done,” said Hal, laughing. “Nathless,” he continued, se- 
riously, “I have determined to make known to thee my 
secret, sith I can carry it no longer. I would rather tell 
thee than any one else, sith meseems thou art the best friend 
I have. Have I done wrong in keeping it from Sir Thomas 
More or Mistress Margaret ? Speak the word, and I will 
make confession to them at once.” 

Christopher looked at the face tinged with shame, — for 
Hal’s nature was remarkably open and averse to auglit that 
savored of deceit, — and burst into an uncontrollable fit of 
laughter. 

“Make confession, sayst thou? I tell thee an thou dost 
to Mistress Margaret those eyes of hers that now look so 
gently on thee will blast thee with their lightning. An thou 
dost to Sir Thomas More he will, mayhap, deliver thee to 
the tender mercies of his loving friend. Bishop Tunstal, 
who would mind burning thee no more than a few worthless 
rags. Keep thy secret from them an thou desirest not to go 
to the stake.” 

“ And from Master William Roper ? ” inquired Hal. “ I 
have heard him speak brave words for Wickliffe and his 
followers.” 

Christopher thought a moment, and then nodded his head 
decidedly. “ Ay, Hal, and from him too. Master William 
hath worthy qualities, but he is under the tutelage of Marga- 


38 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


ret More, who is stronger than he and may in the end mould 
him like wax, though God forbid.” As Christopher looked 
again into Hal’s face — from which the shame had not 
wholly departed — he gave way once more to immoderate 
merriment. But quickly recovering himself, he said, se- 
riously, “ In sooth, Hal, thou needst not be troubled, sith 
between one and two hundred years, the best peojile of 
England have been doing what thou hast.* Had they made 
confession the English Bible and they themselves would have 
been food for flames, and England would go to sure destruc- 
tion. What fools they would have been to do that ! I 
never saw,” he said, admiringly turning over the leaves, 
“ such beautiful writing. My advice to thee, Hal, is this,” 
he continued, as, after the manuscript was returned, they 
were making their way back to the maidens, “ tliat thou 
readest it as oft as thou canst secretly ; and let none of 
Sir Thomas More’s kin, either j^resent or prospective, know 
thou hast it in thy possession.” 

Christo2:>her soon after this obtained leave of Sir Thomr:S 
More to take Hal home with him to spend a week in Lon- 
don. As our hero was about leaving, Margaret took him 
aside and said, — 

“ I am told that heresies are broached where thou art 
going. If thou hearest aught that savoreth of them let it 
come in at one ear and go out at the other. I have some- 
times thought Christopher was tainted by them, and even 
his sister ; though my sweet Edith and I have talked and 
prayed together, and she may escape unscathed. So 
beware.” And she fixed on him a warning look. 

The barge in which Hal soon found himself with his 
young friends was more highly decorated than Sir Thomas 
More’s. Its canopy was of cloth of gold and arras, its 
cushions of crimson velvet, and its gay silken pennons 
floated in the wind. As they made their way toward Lon- 
don, Edith conversed with Hal very freely about his studies, 

* One-hundred and seventy manuscripts, more or less complete, are now ex^ 
tant. See list of manuscripts in “ Wycliffe’s Bible.” Forshall a»d IMadden. 


A COMPANION. 


39 


and expressed the wish that she might be a fellow-student 
with him, and sit at the feet of one who, she said, had 
already become famous for her learning. 

“ Rather have her little feet jDlanted on thy little neck,” 
put in Cliristojjjher. 

“My brother is not in love with thy sweet teacher, friend 
Ilal,” replied Edith, smiling, “as I am, in sooth, and I 
opine thou art. Thou must not let aught he may say 
weaken thy affection for her. He meaneth not half he 
saith, as questionless thou hast found out already.” 

At this moment their attention was attracted by three 
young girls on the bank near which they were gliding, who 
seemed to be attentively watching them, and who soon sent 
them a musical greeting, “ hey how.” Instantly the oars- 
men responded, “ rorabelow ! ” This was kept up for some 
time, the girls tripping gayly beside the river, their voices 
ringing out in the still air, while the servants sent back 
their deep bass tones. Hal was reminded of a song he had 
seen : — 

“ I saw three ladies fair, singing hey and how, 

Upon yon ley land, hey: 

I saw three mariners, singing rombelow. 

Upon yon sea-strand, hey.”* 

At length the damsels paused, and the tallest and 
prettiest of the trio began to sing in sweet tones a little 
ballad, when Christopher bade the men stop rowing. It 
was about the joys of a wandering and tent life. “By 
my soul,” exclaimed Christopher, “ they are gypsies.” Her 
face and voice had seemed familiar to Hal before, but now 
he recognized Zaida. Only it was not the little child he 
saw, but the graceful and stately maiden. As soon as she 
had finished, the girls retired with many humble courtesies, 
the strains “ hey how ” and “ rombelow ” being renewed, 
and continued at the regular dipping of the oar§, until they 
were out of hearing. 

* Skelton’s “ Poetical Works,” vol. III., p. 34. 


40 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


On nearing the city they passed various barges, — some 
having sides emblazoned with armorial bearings indicating 
exalted rank, — whose occupants greeted Christopher and 
Edith politely, several richly-dressed youths removing their 
jeweled caps to the latter, who modestly returned their 
salutations. 

After landing at the foot of Tower street, they proceeded 
to the residence of Mr. Humphrey Monmouth, which was 
in the parish of All Hallows, Barking, and not far away. 
Entering they passed through a large hall into a parlor 
whose floor was covered with a gorgeous carpet, and whose 
walls were hung around with figured tapestry. Two per- 
sons occupied the room, seated in high-back chairs, which 
were covered with crimson velvet ; one a large, broad-faced 
benevolent-looking gentleman, attired in a russet coat, and 
kersey breeches to which were sewed long kersey stock- 
ings; the other, a tall, sweet-faced lady, wearing a white 
cap, a train gown, and an apron as white as snow. Chris- 
topher introduced them to Hal as his father and his 
mother, and they gave him almost a parental welcome, Mr. 
Monmouth placing his hand upon his head, and Mrs. Mon- 
mouth kissing his cheek. What was there in her face that 
revived the memories of his early boyhood? Did it not 
resemble the face he had so often seen in his dreams 
bending over the manuscript, and felt pressed fondly against 
his own? Certainly no kiss had seemed to him like this 
since early boyhood, in that early home, when, as he believed, 
his own mother imprinted it on his brow. Christopher 
noticed Hal’s agitation, and said, “ Mother, I will take Hal 
to his room, that he may have time to rest a little and get 
ready for dinner, which I trow is not far away ; leastways I 
have an appetite for it.” Leading him up a flight of stairs, 
and opening a door, he ushered him into a chamber elegantly 
furnished. 

“Now, fial,” said Christopher, “I will leave thee for 
awhile, and enter my own chamber, which joins this. Mean- 
time thou art to change thy servant’s garb for another,” 


A COMPANION. 41 

pointing to a suit of the same material as his father’s, and 
resembling his own, which lay upon a chair. 

“Nay, Master Christopher,” urged Hal, overcome, “let 
me go down to thy father’s board clad as I am, and let me 
sit amongst the servants according to my wont.” 

“ Nay me not, and master me not, Hal,” replied Christo- 
pher, turning upon hiin his jolly, good-natured face; “we 
cannot boast of gentle blood, — my father is but a merchant, 
some call him rich, — and so thou will not find here the dis- 
tinctions observed in the houses of the nobility.” He then 
left the room. 


CHAPTER VI. 


DISCUSSION. 

Oh, Christ! thy law is hidden in the sepulchre ; when wilt thou send thy 
angel to remove the stone and show thy truth unto thy flock ? 

WiCKLIFFE. 

I N a short time Christopher returned, when the two passed 
down together into the dining-hall, in which the family 
and servants and guests were gathering for dinner. After 
grace had been said in devout accents by a striking-looking 
priest, wearing a long woollen gown, about thirty sat down 
around the table. Some were coarsely clad, evidently 
belonging to the commonalty. Others, as indicated by 
their dress, were ecclesiastics of various orders, and stu- 
dents. Hal sat with the family beside Christopher. On 
the other side of the table, a little way down, sat the priest 
and a young man near him, with whom he apj^eared to be 
on intimate terms. The former was about forty years of 
age. His face was long; his forehead high and broad; his 
eyes set deep in his head, steady and thoughtful when he 
was silent, but when speaking flashing with wonderful bril- 
liancy ; his nose large ; his mouth compressed ; his expres- 
sion sincere, guileless, unsuspecting. The latter was not far 
from twenty-one ; of fine person ; with a countenance full of 
intelligence, genius, and sensibility ; and having about him 
an air of manly independence. Hal was so busy looking at 
these two men that he did not notice the discussion which 
had arisen at the table. When, however, at nearly the 
close of the repast, it became general, he listened, deeply 
interested. It dealt with a variety of subjects; invocation 
of the Virgin, adoration of saints, fastings established by 

42 


DISCUSSION, 


43 


the church, pilgrimages to shrines, offerings to images in the 
churches and setting lights before them, confessions to 
priests, and conversion of the bread and wine into the body, 
and blood of Christ. Nearly all present were on the nega- 
tive side. But the priest and his companion said nothing, 
until some one spoke of the necessity of a general circula- 
tion of the Scriptures, that the people might be enlightened 
in regard to the errors of the church. The eyes of the 
ecclesiastic gleamed with almost supernatural light, and the 
deep tones of his voice hushed the hall to a deathlike 
stillness. 

“Only scholars can read the Latin Bible of St. Jerome, 
or the Latin New Testament of Erasmus ; or understand 
the obsolete words of Wickliffe’s English Bible. We must 
have a translation in the language now spoken in palace and 
in hovel; one from the original tongues, and put into the 
hands of every person. Ay, such a translation, if the Lord 
please, we toill have ere many months.” 

The effect of these words was electric. The young stu- 
dent sitting beside the speaker exclaimed enthusiastically, 
“ Amen ! ” when there was a loud burst of amens around 
the table. Some wept. Others, among whom was Christo- 
j)her, clapped their hands. The blue eyes of Edith shone 
with heroic light. 

The two lads had seated themselves in Christopher’s 
room, when Hal inquired, “Prithee, who was that priest, 
and what meant he? ” 

The other laughed. “It is a secret, which I will tell 
thee if thou wilt be mum before Sir Thomas More and his 
daughter Meg. In sooth he is to write the translation him- 
self, and hath begun it withal. His name is William 
Tyndale.” 

“ But why should it be a secret?” Hal asked, “ where is 
the wrong?” 

“Nowhere,” was the reply, “save in the hearts of those 
who are afraid that thereby their eviLdeeds will be brought 
to light. Such have on their side ecclesiastical law, which 


44 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


saith that no person shall translate the Scriptures unless the 
bishops give him leave. And sith they have so many of the 
bishops in their excellent company they feel safe I trow.” 

“ Hath he ever asked Ihe bishops ? ” inquired Hal. 

“Ay, that he hath,” rejoined his companion, “but to no 
purpose. The bisliops have been opposed to it from tlie 
time of Wickliffe until now. Master Tyndale finds that if 
he wait for tlieir consent he will never do the work upon 
which he hath set his heart. And so he hath decided to 
cross the channel, hoping he may be able to translate 
the Scriptures, and get them printed without hinderance. 
Heaven help him. Thou shalt see much of this good priest 
ere thou depart, sith he lodgeth with us. The young man 
by his side is Master John Frith, the mathematician of 
King’s College, in Cambridge. He is visiting Master Tyn- 
dale, — for they are fast friends, — and they twain have 
been studying together in a little room in our house, and 
have translated several chapters of the New Testament 
from the Greek into the English. But Hal,” he continued, 
suddenly rising, “ I have a treasure to show thee like thine 
own.” He then raised the tapestry and removed a part of 
the oaken wall — which, however, appeared to be of a piece 
with the rest — and putting in his hand took out an iron 
box. Unlocking and opening it, he exhibited a heap of 
manuscripts, for the most part torn and soiled. “ This,” 
said he, holding up the fragment of a leaf of John’s Gospel, 
“ belonged to the first English martyr to our principles, a 
priest whose name was William Sautre. ‘ He will not wor- 
ship the Cross on whicli Christ suffered, but only Christ 
that suffered upon the Cross’ was the charge against him. 
He was burned in the reign of Henry IV.* This ” — 
handling carefully a roll that had been well preserved, which 
was Paul’s Epistle to the Romans — “belonged to the good 
Lord Cobliam, of whom the clergy said, ‘ He would require 
no absolution at our hands, only of God.’ He was burned 
in the reign of Henry V.f As to these,” — showing various 

♦ Fox, vol. I., p. 587. t Fox, vol. I., p. 646. 


Liscussiojsr. 


45 


rumpled leaves, all more or less mutilated or defaced, — 
“ they belonged to other confessors, known and unknown.” 

Ilal looked with surprise at the round, good-natured face 
of Christoplier, now lighted with enthusiastic interest, as 
he liandled reverently these relics, and inquired where he 
obtained them. 

“From the cottages of peasants for the most part,” 
replied Christopher, “ where some of them have been kept 
from generation to generation. I have always paid their 
owners largely, or given them perfect copies instead.” He 
then put the manuscripts into the box, which he carefully 
deposited in the place from which he had taken it. 

“Now, Hal,” he said, laughing, “thou hast seen enow, I 
ween, to prove me a heretic out and out. But I liave 
trusted that honest face of thine ; and withal, I could tell a 
tale of thee, an thou didst babble, that would make thee 
smell the fagot as well as myself.” 

The lad’s stay at Mr. Monmouth’s house was full of pleas- 
ant surprises. The discussions at table, where he saw each 
day new faces, continually suggested new ideas to his mind. 
Master Tyndale he rarely saw away from the family board, 
except as leading the devotions of the household with won- 
derful fervency, or passing through the rooms in a quiet, 
austere manner as though absorbed in some high theme. 

One day Hal was standing beside Mr. Monmouth when 
the priest met them, with his eyes upon the floor and his 
hands behind him. “Master Tyndale,” said Mr. Mon- 
mouth, “ allow me to acquaint you with this lad. Mayhap 
you will like to speak with him sith he is a member of 
the household of Sir Thomas More, and a pupil of his 
daughter Margaret. He is called Hal.” 

The awe-inspiring eyes of the priest looked with a tender 
expression upon the boy as he took him by the hand and 
talked to him in a kind and persuasive manner about serv- 
ing God in early life. “ The Christians needed in our times,” 
he said, “ are those who become such in childhood, and grow 
up to be men and women in Christ Jesus. Thou hast mar- 


46 


THE BOT-LOLLARD. 


velous advantages for religious instruction where thou art. 
I trust thou dost improve them, but meanwhile be on thy 
guard against aught that savoreth of superstition. I have 
great hopes of Sir Thomas More, sith he condemneth relig- 
ious persecution in his ‘ Utopia,’ and sith he is the friend of 
Erasmus. Thou knowest,” turning to Mr. Monmouth, 
“ what the latter saith of the Gospel and Epistles of St. 
Paul; his words ought to be written on the sky so that 
everybody can read them ; ‘ I wish they were translated 
into all languages of all people, that they might be read and 
known, not merely by the Scotch and the Irish, but even by 
the Turks and the Saracens. I wish that the husbandman 
may sing parts of them at his plough, that the weaver 
may warble them at his shuttle, that the traveler may with 
their narratives beguile the weariness of the way.’ Hast 
ever heard,” addressing Hal, “from Sir Thomas More 
language like this ? ” 

The lad was obliged to answer in the negative. 

Master Tyndale looked disappointed. “Nathless,” he 
said, his countenance clearing up, “ I trow Sir Thomas and 
Erasmus agree as touching an English translation.” 

As he passed on Mr. Monmouth looked grave, and said, 
“ the good man is too sanguine, sith he thinks others have 
the same spirit as himself. I greatly fear that neither in 
Sir Thomas More nor Erasmus will he find a friend.” 

Hal often saw Master Frith, as the young student every 
day chatted socially with the family, and was on intimate 
terms with Christopher. It was impossible to be with him 
without being charmed by his engaging manners and con- 
versation, and impressed by his devoted piety. He took 
much interest in the lad, having learned his history from 
Christopher, and gave him some words of symj)athy and 
counsel. 

Hal was delighted with Mr. Monmouth’s mansion, with its 
soundless carpets and brilliant tapestry, and beautiful paint- 
ings and curiosities from many parts of the world, even 
from Jerusalem. The most attractive room to him, how- 


DISCUSSION. 


47 


ever, was the library. He with Christopher spent almost an 
entire day there in looking at Scripture translations. First, 
Christopher brought to him some that had been concealed 
behind a bookcase. “ Here,” said he, “is a Venetian trans- 
lation in 1471, a German in 1466, a Dutch in 1477, a Valen- 
cian in 1478, a Bohemian in 1475, and a French in 1477.* But 
tliese are translations from the Vulgate, — translations from 
a translation.” Then he brought to him books from another 
hiding-place. They were Luther’s New Testament in two 
volumes in 1522, Lefevre’s in French in the same year, and 
Nikkleson’s in Danish in 1524. “These,” he said, “are 
translations from the original Greek. Thinkest thou Eng- 
land will long lag behind Germany and France and Den- 
mark? I tell thee thousands will clap tlieir hands for joy 
when they see a New Testament in English.” And the 
enthusiastic boy began to clap his hands and shout “hurra! ” 
in anticipation. Soon after he brought a large book that 
interested Hal more than all the others. He said that 
he had begged it for a few moments from his father, who 
kept it carefully concealed in another hiding-place. It was 
Wickliffe’s translation in manuscript of the entire Script- 
ures, with a preface. 

The week had passed, and Hal, in his servile garb again, 
was seated with Christopher and Edith in Mr. Monmouth’s 
barge, now on its way back to Chelsea. Mr. and Mrs. Mon- 
mouth, whom he had learned to love more and more each 
day, had parted from him tenderly, telling him to regard 
their house as his second home. The resemblance between 
the face of Mrs. Monmouth and that of the beautiful lady, as 
his memory recalled it, had grown during his stay. He had 
not ventured to speak of it. But as they glided along he 
impulsively asked Christopher if his mother had a sister. 
Christopher and Edith both looked surprised at the ques- 
tion. But the former answered, — 

“ Ay, Hal, but she hath not seen her for a score of years, 
I trow. Edith and myself never saw her. She married a 

* “ The English Hexapla,” Introduction, p. 26. 


48 


THE BOY-LOLLAUB. 


nobleman, and they live in the county of Gloucester. He is 
very proud and an arrant papist withal. Soon after their 
marriage, discovering her religious sentiments, — which 
were like my mother’s, — he forbade her coming to our 
house; and my mother, after having been rudely repulsed 
several times, did not go to her mansion, where I wot she 
hath been kept a prisoner, sith she hath not appeared in Lon- 
don or at court. Hast ever heard of her at Sir Thomas 
More’s ? Mayhap thou hast seen her husband there — Sir 
William Templeton.” 

“Nay, Christopher,” replied Hal, “but somehow the 
sweet face of thy mother brings to my mind another I used 
to see when I was a little boy. But it is fancy, I trow.” 

“ It must be,” rejoined Christopher. “ My aunt. Lady 
William Templeton, hath had but one child, a boy, who died 
ere I can remember. After that her husband became more 
alienated from her than ever. An she had had another 
child, especially a boy, we should have heard on’t, for his 
affection to her would have returned, mayhap ; leastwise 
he would have let us know. The brute noticeth us but 
little, — nathless, as oft as I desire, for I see him sometimes 
at court. It is said she was the most beautiful woman in 
London when he married her ; and questionless she is still 
beautiful. The brute!” And a look of wrath visited the 
face of Christopher, but soon departed. There were tears 
in Edith’s eyes. “ How these religious differences,” she 
exclaimed, “ separate dear ones 1 ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


SCRUPLES. 


There is a kind of conscience some men keep, 

Is like a member that’s benumbed with sleep ; 

Which, as it gathers blood, and wakes again. 

It shoots, and pricks, and feels as big as ten. 

Quarles. 

I F Sir Tliomas More had realized the degree of influence 
counter to his own which the Monmouths would exert 
he would not have allowed Hal to visit them or indeed 
associate with them at all. He had been told that Mr. 
Monmouth was in sympathy with the German Reformers, 
and that disciples of the latter sometimes gathered around 
the merchant’s table. But the high respect Sir Thomas 
entertained for one who was remarkable for his liberality, 
especially toward scholars, and the knight’s appreciation of 
his daughter’s instructions and of his own, tended to dissi- 
pate any fears he may have felt of harm to the lad. Be- 
sides, just then, a secret matter of the king was occupying 
his thoughts and filling him with alarm. This was no less 
than a divorce from his estimable queen, from whom he had 
been for some time estranged. She was his brother’s widow 
when he married her ; and, although a reluctant dispensa- 
tion had been granted by the pope, many of the highest 
nobility, nearly all the bishops, and the people generally, had 
scruples in regard to the union. Whatever the king hinjself 
had felt at first was afterward revived by his frequent dis- 
appointments about offspring. All were either born dead, or 
died soon after birth, save one, — now a feeble, sickly girl in 
her ninth year. The bereaved monarch read and pondered 
Leviticus xviii: 16; xx. : 21. These passages forbade such 
marriages to the Jews, and threatened childlessness in case of 

49 


50 


THE BOT-LOLLARE. 


disobedience. Was he suffering the effects of divine wrath ? 
Would a child of his succeed him in the kingdom? Would 
not the legitimacy of his daughter be questioned ? It had 
been already by the states of Castile, who opposed her mar- 
riage with the emperor, and by the Bishop of Taroe, who 
objected to her marriage with the Duke of Orleans, the 
third son of the French king. But if her legitimacy should 
be acknowledged, would she be allowed to sit quietly on the 
throne in that turbulent age when England had never had 
a female sovereign, and the claim of female heirs had 
never been distinctly admitted? Were there not several 
aspirants of royal blood? The wars of the Roses had 
occurred within the memory of some of that generation. 
Would there be a repetition of their bloody scenes? But 
though the king was actuated to a certain extent by these 
scruples, it is not uncharitable to think that his Tudor will 
would have made a way through them if Catherine had 
looked as beautiful to him as when she was the fair bride of 
a doting youth of eighteen. He was in his thirty-fourth 
year, in the full enjoyment of health and vigor, and ex- 
tremely fond of pleasure; while she was six years older 
than himself, with many physical infirmities, and inclined to 
melancholy. Leading the festivities of the court, and join- 
ing in the orgies at York Place, the king had ceased to be 
in sympathy with the queen, to whom such scenes were dis- 
tasteful. She, being a Sister of the Order of St. Francis, 
wore serge next her skin, counted her beads, and mumbled 
her prayers. In this instance conscience — what there was 
in Henry VIH. — and inclination shook each other warmly 
by the hand. 

On the afternoon of the next day following his return 
Hal was standing by the garden wall with his manuscript in 
his hand. He had just taken it therefrom and begun to 
turn over its leaves. But in a moment he was startled by a 
loud exclamation, “ha!” Looking up he saw two men, 
who, having turned a corner in the garden, had just come 
in sight. One was a large, magnificent personage, witli 


BCBUPLES. 


51 


plumed cap, and doublet resplendent with gold and crimson, 
and shoes sparkling with diamonds. His arm was thrown 
lovingly around the neck of the other, who was Sir Thomas 
More. Hal recognized the king, having seen him several 
times. As they were hut a few yards distant the lad thrust 
his treasure into his pocket and fell upon his knees. Luckily 
the two were so busily engaged in conversation they did 
not notice the misplaced stone, or aught peculiar in his 
appearance. 

Yet the king, who was then pojDular with his subjects, 
and loved to notice the youngest of them, did not pass him 
without a kindly word, and hade him rise. 

“ By my soul ! ” he exclaimed, “ a proper lad. How 
earnest thou by him. Sir Tliomas?” 

The latter then related very briefly all that was known 
concerning him. 

“ Odsfish ! ” exclaimed Henry, eyeing his face more closely, 
“ it’s the cardinal. Seest thou not the resemblance?” 

“ I have not seen it, your highness,” replied Sir Thomas, 
“ but now your highness’ superior discernment indicateth it, 
methinks I see the cardinal’s eye.” 

“ Ho, ho, ho ! ” roared the king, and the two passed on. 

Hal then quickly replaced the manuscript and tlie stone, 
conscious that he had passed through a great peril unharmed. 
Yet this was forgotten, as we may see in his tears of shame 
and mortification. Amongst the gypsies illegitimacy was 
despised. In his present home he had been taught the 
beauty of the domestic virtues and the ugliness of lawless 
passion. Moreover he possessed great natural delicacy of 
conscience, which his teacher had observed, exclaiming, 
“ Thou must have had a sweet mother, Hal, and inherited 
what the gypsies could not steal from thee, even though 
they stole and kept thee so long.” Besides, he disliked 
exceedingly the cardinal, whose vanity was often the butt of 
ridicule at Mr. Monmouth’s, and sometimes at Sir Thomas 
More’s tables. 

In a tumult of grief the boy was rushing towards the 


52 


THE BOY-LOLLAUl), 


house, where he could have tlie retirement of his room, when 
he almost ran upon Margaret. 

“ Why, Hal,” she cried, “ what aileth thee? What hath put 
thee into such a fume ? Nay, nay,” she persisted, as, humbly 
muttering an excuse, he was about slinking away, “ I must 
kuow more of tliis. Come with me into the arbor.” 

This was a favorite seat of the family under some overhang- 
ing grapevines, in the highest part of the garden, and com- 
manding a view of the Thames and of London in the distance. 

Accustomed to yield to her authority, he went with 
Margaret to the arbor, which was near, and placed himself 
by her side. 

“Now tell me, Ilal, what is the matter? Did his high- 
ness say aught to trouble thee ? For only a moment sith- 
ence he with my fatlier must liave passed by the little plat 
where thou lovest to spend so much of thy time in cultivat- 
ing dowers.” 

Hal after a while reluctantly told her that the king had 
spoken of his resemblance to Wolsey. 

“Thou resemble the cardinal ! ” she exclaimed. “I never 
thought of it. Nathless, thine eye, now that thou art excited, 
hath a look of liis, methinks. Nay, Hal,” — as she noticed 
that he shrunk back and his lip quivered at her last remark, 
— “be not grieved at this. His highness praised thee when 
he said thou wast like Wolsey, sith he is a handsome man, 
and hath great abilities. It is too true, alack, that he is an 
ill-liver; and I fear his influence over our noble king hath not 
alway been what it should be. And yet, Hal, meseems thou 
wdlt fare well if thou belongest to him, sith he is exceeding 
kind to such. Thomas Winter, his son, though but a youth, 
is prebend of Lincoln, prebend and archdeacon of York, and 
chancellor of Salisbury ; and I should not be surprised at 
his becoming bishop and cardinal.” 

Hal, liowever, instead of being appeased, indignantly 
declared, “Let me be the humblest servant of thy honored 
father rather than the proudest child of that bad man;” 
but unable to proceed further he burst into tears. 


SCRUPLES. 


53 


Margaret, putting her arm around the sensitive boy, 
gently kissed his brow and tried to soothe him. “Nay, sweet 
Hal, greet not so. I trow his highness was mistaken. Thou 
art too good to have a drop of the cardinal’s blood in thy 
veins. But an thou hast thou needst not be troubled. 
The good and learned and gentle Erasmus was born out of 
wedlock. And eke even his holiness. Pope Clement. So 
dry tliy eyes. Beside I have something to tell thee 
which will please thee, I wot. My sweet Edith Monmouth 
liketh thee, and hath told me how becoming thy new 
suit was. My father hath given thee to me and Master 
William Roper. What sayest thou, wilt thou doff this 
coarse garb and don a better and be our page?” 

Hal threw himself on his knees and kissed her hand 
affectionately. 

“ I accept thy loyalty to our royal highnesses,” she said, 
laughing; “but hush,’ slie continued, seriously, “my father 
is approaching, having a sad face methinks, with Master 
Roper. The king hath left, I ween.” 

Hal had barely time to arise and compose himself when 
Sir Thomas and his future son-in-law reached the arbor. 
The latter had evidently been congratulating the former 
upon his intimacy with the king, for the knight said, with a 
dejected air, “I thank our Lord, son, I find his grace my very 
good lord indeed, and I believe he doth as singularly favor me 
as any subject within this realm; howbeit, son Roper, I may 
tell thee, I have no cause to be proud thereof ; for, if my head 
would win him a castle in France it should not fail to go.”* 

Margaret made her father sit beside her, while Master 
Roper passed on. 

“Methinks thou art faint,” she said, anxiously noticing 
his pallid face, “ and a glass of wine will do thee good. Let 
me bid Hal go and get it for thee, dearest father.” 

“Nay, dearest daughter,” he answered, “I am only 
grieved and fearful. Nathless, the lad may, an he will, 
fetch me a draught of clear water from the sirring.” 

* Roper’s “ Life of Sir Thomas More,” pp. 21, 22, 


54 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


Hal returned in a moment with a goblet of water, which 
he handed to Sir Thomas on his knees. The knight com- 
mended his celerity and bade him rise, when, holding the 
goblet in his hand, he discoursed upon a subject which, as 
he said, had been uppermost in his interview with the king 
— the divorce. 

“ And doth his highness forsake the queen,” exclaimed 
Margaret, indignantly, “sith her bodily charms are waning? 
I have opined her other and higher charms would attract 
him the more.” 

Sir Thomas shook his head. “ It is not thus with kings. 
I remember her when she was fair, and his highness loved her.” 
And he repeated some Latin lines he himself had written 
many years before. They have been translated into Eng- 
lish, as below : — 

“ On that fair brow has Venus fixed her throne, 

Those eyes dart forth a lustre all their own, 

Thy cheeks, twin roses blushing on one stem: 

But oh ! thy virtue is a priceless gem, 

Which shines reflected with a double grace. 

In the pure faithful mirror of thy face.”t 

“ Alack, dearest father,” cried Margaret, “ how hath her 
highness changed ! But meseems his highness will not 
allow any feeling of distaste for her to make him other than 
he hath been alway — a firm, true son of the church. Thou 
knowest that among all the monarchs of Europe there is 
not one more pious or more loyal to his holiness the pope.” 

Sir Thomas shook his head again. “ His highness suffer- 
eth not his will and pleasure to be crossed.” 

“ But marry, the king hath received too many high honors 
from the popes to turn recreant now,” still pleaded Margaret. 

Her father’s eye kindled. “ I saw the golden rose his 
highness received from Pope Julius IT. In sooth it was a 
golden tree, with golden stem, and brancli, and leaf, and 
flower, in a vase, which, though not of gold, was filled with 

t Walter’s “ Life of More,” p. 32, 


SCRUPLES. 


55 


the dust of gold for soil.” He looked up devoutly. “ The 
tree had been dipped in chrism and perfumed with musk. 
The musk being united to the gold by the chrism repre- 
sented three substances found in Jesus, viz.': the divinity, 
tlie body, and the soul.* I need not remind thee, dearest 
daughter, sith thou sawest it all, of the tumult of joy in which 
his highness was tvhen, seated on a high throne, amid great 
pomp. Pope Clement’s letter was read giving his highness 
the title of Defender of the Faith for his book, — the only 
king to whom this title hath ever been given. Nathless, I 
fear me ” — here his countenance fell — “ this divorce fore- 
bod eth some dire calamity to the church. The queen herself 
hath a proud stomach, and cometh of a proud race, with the 
renowned Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain for her parents. 
I tell thee, dearest daughter, his holiness Pope Clement will 
never undo what Pope Julius did, and bring upon himself 
the high displeasure of her nephew, the Emperor Charles V. 
And worst of all, the Lollards and Lutherans will rejoice and 
take courage if there should be a breach between his high- 
ness and the pope.” 

As Sir Thomas had been conversing with his daughter, 
he had occasionally put the goblet to his lips; but now, 
having drained it, he returned it to Hal, who with a pro- 
found obeisance left. But hearing a groan the lad looked 
back and saw Margaret with her arms around her father’s 
neck trying to comfort him. The words came to his ears : — 

“ I fear, I greatly fear, my dearest Meg,” and “ It may 
not be, my dearest father, it may not be ; the good Lord 
will not let the wicked triumph.” 

* Bounechose’s “ Reformers before the Reformation,” p. 273. Roscoe’s “ Life 
of Leo X.,” vol. i, p. 243, note. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A CONTRAST. 


’Tis the most certain sign the world’s accurst, 

That the best things corrupted are the 'worst. 

Denham. 

A YEAR has passed before we again see our hero. 

Margaret More has fulfilled her promise to him. 
His garb of lamb’s fur thrown aside, and clad in doublet and 
coat of russet, and kersey breeches and stockings, he waited 
upon her and her lover, and was evidently a favorite. 
Meanwhile the intimacy between the two families continued, 
though the contrast they furnished to the observing lad 
grew continually. And this contrast was nowhere more 
marked than at their respective family boards. Wickliffe 
and his followers, who were extolled as possessing every 
virtue at the one, were branded not only as heretics but as 
traitors to their country at the other. Luther and his friends, 
who were spoken of so admiringly at the one, were declared 
responsible for the excesses of the Anabaptists and the awful 
deeds of the peasants at the other; Sir Thomas More using 
this language : “ Now-a-days Germany bringeth forth more 
monsters, more prodigious things, than Africa was wont to 
do.” * Man’s inability to repent of himself, without super- 
natural aid, which was proclaimed at the one, was pro- 
nounced to be fatalism and productive of the worst results 
at the other. Justification by faith, which was the rallying 
cry at the one, was ridiculed at the other. The Holy Scrip- 
tures, which were pronounced to be the only rule of faith 
and practice at the one, were, in this respect, placed on a 
level with, or rather beneath, the Church at the other, this 
being the contradictory language Sir Thomas used : “ If the 

* “ Sir Thomas More : A Selection from his Works, or Beauties of More,” 
p. 318. 


66 


A CONTBAST. 


57 


Church say one thing and the Holy Scriptures another 
thing, the faith of the Churcli is to be taken as the word of 
God as well as the Scripture, and therefore to be believed.”* 
The elements at the Lord’s Supper, which were sometimes 
affirmed to be simply a memorial at the one, were asserted 
to be the literal body and blood of our Lord at the other. 
And while there was considerable freedom in discussion at 
the one, not a word of dissent was allowed at the other ; 
though a guest occasionally kept an embarrassed silence, 
William Roper appeared troubled, and the fool wore a 
dazed look. The last would sit with his finger resting 
against his forehead, his brow wrinkled, and his eyes gazing 
steadily into his plate as though he was trying vainly to 
solve some deep problem. Once, when Sir Thomas was 
speaking of the necessity of faith, that they might adore the 
sacrament of the altar as the very body and blood of our 
Lord, the fool — who had been studying his plate for some 
time without moving — suddenly raised his head and burst 
into a loud laugh, “ Ho, ho, ho ! ” As the class to which he 
belonged had almost unlimited license in the houses of the 
great, his conduct did not excite special astonishment ; and 
his master, willing to turn aside for a little merriment, asked 
him what had pleased him. 

“I was thinking of the joke of the learned Erasmus. 
Ho, ho, ho ! ” roared the fool. 

“ What joke of my friend couldst thou possibly have got 
into thy head ? ” 

“Marry, this,” was the reply. “Thou didst tell the 
learned Erasmus that he could receive the body of Christ in 
the holy sacrament only by believing. And faith, the 
learned Erasmus took thee at thy word when he borrowed thy 
horse and kept it. Quod he, quod the learned Erasmus,” — 
here Sir Thomas raised his finger to check him, but the fool, 
in his effort to recollect, did not notice the motion, and 
went on : “Quod the learned Erasmus,” — the fool repeated 
certain Latin lines which have been thus translated : — 

* Anderson’s “Annals of the English Bible,” p. 120.' 


58 


THE nOY-LOLLARI). 


“ Only believe thou sharest Christ's feast, say you, 

And never doubt the fact is therefore true : 

So write 1 of thy horse; — if thou art able 
But to believe it, he is in thy stable.”* 

A general roar of laughter succeeded, in which the host 
joined, although he was not pleased at the disclosure of 
wliat he liad intended to keep as a secret, and his discourse 
was broken off in the presence of certain jiapal dignitaries. 

. Wliile the Catliolic church was burning heretics at tlie 
stake in many parts of Europe, there prevailed amongst its 
ecclesiastics more or less levity in performing its most 
solemn rites, and infidelity concerning the essential doc- 
trines of Christianity. When Luther, as yet a papist, was 
in Koine, he heard certain prelates laughing at the way in 
whicli they had said mass. Instead of using the form of 
sacramental words in Latin, which indicated that the ele- 
ments were transformed into the body and blood of the 
Saviour, they employed other Latin words which meant, 
“ Bread thou art and bread thou slialt remain ; wine thou 
art and wine tliou shalt remain.” Then, when they elevated 
the pyx, the ignoi-ant people, not aware of the dece])tion, 
fell on their knees and worshijiped.t Pope Leo X. at one 
time, when hearing a discussion upon the duration of the 
soul, argued that it is mortal. “For,” said he, “it would 
be terrible to believe in a future state. Conscience is an 
evil beast, who arms man against himself.”^ We are told 
that in Kome no one pretended to be a philosopher unless 
he had attacked the principles of religion. § How few of 
Sir Thomas More’s guests would have gone to the stake for 
transubstantiation, or even for the immortality of the soul. 
The observing lad could not but see that there was a great 
difference between them and tlie guests of Mr. Humphrey 
Monmouth. And yet both agreed in condemning tlie 

* D’Aubign^’s “ History of the Reformation,” vol. iii, p. 293. 
t D’Aubigne’s “ History of the Reformation,” vol. i, p. 167, 168. 
t Table’s “ History of English Literature,” vol. i, p. 353. 

§ Williams’ ” Lives of the English Cardinals,” vol. ii, p. 346. 


A CONTBAST. 


59 


ignorance and wickedness of many of the sacred and secu- 
lar clergy, none surpassing Sir Thomas More himself in biting 
satire. 

It was Friday, and Sir Thomas read at morning devotions 
in his chapel not only the portion of the service belonging 
to the day, but a prayer of his own, which was as follows : — 

“ O Lord God, give us of Thy grace, not to read nor hear this gospel 
of Thy bitter passion, with our eyes and our ears, in the manner of a 
pastime, but that it may by meditation sink so deeply into our hearts, 
as to conduce to the everlasting profit of our souls. Amen.” * 

The solemn tones of the reader affected the entire house- 
hold ; and as they were separating Margaret More whis- 
pered in the ear of Hal, — 

“ Thou needst not con thy task in Virgil to-day, but 
come to the arbor at nine o’clock, bringing thy Latin dic- 
tionary, and I will teach thee to read the New Testament of 
Erasmus.” 

This was what the lad had been anticipating for some 
time ; and at the appointed hour he was seated by her side. 

She held the New Testament in her hand. “ I fear me 
some of our reverend fathers would not approve of this, sith 
thou art so young a lad and I am but a maiden. Nathless, 
thou art bright and quick, and religious withal, while I call 
myself a stanch daughter of holy church. So I’ll make the 
venture.” 

She opened at the nineteenth chapter of John, and com- 
menced the account of the crucifixion. Dwelling at some 
length upon each verse, she made Hal look out the Latin 
words while she explained their meaning in their connection. 
Very few, even amongst the bishops, were more competent to 
do it, for it is said that she became the most learned lady in 
all England.! Their progress was slow ; but Margaret was 
amazed at his apparent familiarity with the passage. At 
length she exclaimed, — 

* “ Sir Thomas More ; A Selection,” etc., p. 302. 
t Strype’s “Parker,” vol. i, p. 357, 


60 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“Why, Hal, thou must have had some other teacher 
than I!” 

The boy reddened and failed to look with his clear, honest 
eyes into hers. He had often S2:)elled out the passage in his 
manuscript. 

“ I opine thou must have had some heretical instructor,” 
she again exclaimed, in a severe tone. “ Hast ever read it 
in a pestilent translation of Wickliffe at the house of Mr. 
Monmouth ? ” 

Hal trembled at a part of her question, but when she 
finished it he could answer truly in the negative. He felt 
inclined at first to confess all ; but the shadow in her eyes 
grew darker and darker, and she declared, — 

“ I should not love thee, Hal, an thou didst read that 
heretical book, or e’en without my consent and aid this 
book I hold in my hand. Forgive me,” she added, with 
changed look and tone, noticing Hal’s emotion, “my sus- 
picion is unjust, I trow; nathless,” she continued, with 
some asperity, “ it may be a warning to thee of what thou 
must expect an thou art not careful while with the Mon- 
mouths. Marry, the punishment would be worse than 
frowns. But enow of this ; let’s go on to the next verse.” 
And soon she was unfolding in a masterly way the deep 
import of certain Latin words, and did not notice that her 
father stood before her, listening with a countenance not 
only of approval but of affection and admiration. When 
Margaret realized the presence of Sir Thomas she blushed 
and commenced an apology. But he interrupted her, say- 
ing, emjDhatically, — 

“ Nay, dearest daughter, thou couldst not be better 
employed. There is no work in my library to be compared 
with this, and I hope thou wilt teach it to thy pupil oft.” 
His face grew animated, as was the case when a bright 
thought struck him, and he continued, “ Now, setting aside 
the poets’ fables, and all idle trifles, I heartily pray you to 
take in hand the Holy Scriptures, and read them in the 
spirit they should be read. Thou canst do nothing more 


A COJVTBAST. 


61 


pleasing to God, nothing more profitable to thyself, than 
that thy hand should cease nor day nor night to turn 
these sacred volumes. There lieth concealed in tliem a cer- 
tain heavenly strength, quick and effectual, which, with a 
marvelous power, transformeth and changeth the reader’s 
mind into the love of God.” * 

Margaret drank in the words. She may have perceived 
no inconsistency between them and what he had often 
uttered against the readers of Wickliffe’s Bible. The lad 
perceived it, however, and was aware that another person 
did also, since at that moment he caught sight of the fool 
standing near but partly concealed, his finger to his fore- 
head, which was screwed up in comical fashion. Indeed, 
the lad was as much puzzled as the fool. Only the day 
before Father Forest, a Franciscan Friar, had announced 
at table that an English translation of the New Testament 
had been prepared, and ere long three thousand copies would 
find their way to England. Full well the lad knew who 
was the author; that it was no other than Master William 
Tyndale, who had been absent from the country for more than 
a year and four months for this very purpose. Receiving 
the news with secret delight, he was startled at the expres- 
sions of amazement and horror from nearly all present, and 
especially from the host. The deepening shadow in the 
eyes of the latter was like that in Margaret’s a moment 
ago. The resemblance between father and daughter, in 
thought and feeling, as well as in form and feature, grew 
upon the lad. 

Hal continued with his teacher, studying the Latin New 
Testament of Erasmus, till the hour for dinner. Sir Thomas 
did not appear at table. This was not strange, as he 
usually spent Friday in fasting and prayer. Late in the 
afternoon the lad went to the library at the end of the 
garden to get a book which Margaret had advised him to 
read. While taking it from the shelf he thought he heard 
a moaning sound. The building adjoining was the chapel ; 

* “Selection,” etc., p. 301, 


62 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


and as the door was ajar he looked in, and saw Sir Thomas 
lashing his back, — which was stripped to the skin, — with 
all his strength, witli a whip of knotted cords. At each 
stroke the blood was streaming, and there came from his 
lips an involuntary expression of pain. The boy, horrified 
at the sight, recoiled and fled from the building. 


CHAPTER IX. 


DEFECTION. 

As good almost kill a man as kill a good book ; who kills a man kills a reason- 
able creature, God’s image ; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself. 

, Milton. 

F ather forest was warden of the Franciscan con- 
vent at Greenwich, which had received great favors 
from Henry VIII. and Catlierine. He was also the queen’s 
confessor. At Sir Thomas More’s table, where he had been 
of late an occasional visitor, no one was treated with more 
deference than he. He sat there barefoot, and wearing the 
dress of his order, which consisted of a coarse, loose woollen 
garment of a gray color, reaching down to the ankles and 
girded with cords, and a cowl and cloak of the same mate- 
rial. The cowl, however, was thrown aside, revealing 
large, coarse features in keeping with his loud and harsh 
voice. Bitterly hating Wickliffe and Luther, he had made 
the declaration about a New Testament in Englisii — as 
recorded nearly at the close of the last chapter. Said he, 
witli a portentous frown, “ The jiestilent news hath come to 
court in letters from a patrician of Cologne well known to 
his highness, Herman Rinck ; and from a holy man, dean 
of the church of the Blessed Virgin at Frankfort, John 
Cochloeus, — one withal so zealous for the good cause he 
hath been called the ‘scourge of Luther.’” A few days 
after, with a more portentous frown, he informed the com- 
pany at table that Edward Lee, almoner to the king, while 
on his way to Sj)ain as an ambassador, had just written 
to court that this translation would arrive in a few days. 
From the consternation with which the intelligence was 
received one might think that an army of Turks was about 
to invade the land. There could be no mistake about it, 
63 


64 


THE BOY-LOLLAllD. 


Father Forest, as the queen’s confessor, knew whereof lie 
affirmed; and knew sometimes in advance of others who 
frequented the court. For several days at table the ex 
pectcd translation was the exciting topic of conversation. 
But a prevailing sickness and mortality thinned the crowd 
of visitors, and now William Roper waxed more bold in 
advancing his views. This may have arisen in part from 
an intimacy which had lately sprung up between him and 
Christopher Monmouth. Margaret was therefore in trouble. 
She began to regret the intercourse between the two fami- 
lies, fearful that it might result in the ruin of both pupil and 
lover. Hal surmised that the interviews between her and 
Edith were not so harmonious as they had been ; for imme- 
diately after some of them he noticed the shadow in Mar- 
garet’s eyes, and the younger maiden’s look of resolution. 

One day, the infection having subsided, quite a large 
number were present at table, when a recent arrest for 
heresy — that of Dr. Robert Barnes — was mentioned. 
Several ecclesiastics declared violently that he ought to 
burn. But the loudest voice was that of Father Forest. 

“ He hath blasphemed the clergy,” he cried, “ especially 
the bishops and the cardinal ! ” 

William Roper, who had been an enthusiastic listener to 
the prior, as the latter discoursed eloquently to admiring 
crowds at Cambridge upon Cicero, and Terence, and Plautus, 
ventured to speak a word for him. 

Father Forest’s lip curled; but he did not forget that the 
young man was the son of the king’s attorney-general, and 
would be the son-in-law of Sir Thomas More, and he said 
in a tone less authoritative, — 

“His talents, my son, but render him the more danger- 
ous. Nathless, the church is merciful, and receiveth him 
back to her loving arms on repentance. It only saith to 
this brilliant though misguided man, ‘Turn or burn.’” 

“ Then,” exclaimed William Roper, heatedly, and losing 
his self-control, “ he will burn. That Dr. Barnes turn not I 
will stake my head.” 


DEFECTION. 


65 


“ Is’t not rash, my son,” rejoined the friar, with a slightly 
ironical accent, “ to make so valuable a wager as thy head ? ” 

“When a man stakes his head,” remarked Sir Thomas, 
“ it is usually empty.” The young man colored. 

“Dr. Barnes will turn,” remarked Father Forest, de- 
cidedly. “ Art thou willing to witness it, my son ? His 
humiliation must be as public as his sin.” 

“ I am willing to witness his burning, father, and say ‘ ’tis 
bravely done.’ ” 

“Or his humiliation, my son ? ” persisted the monk. 

“That will not be; but an it be, I am willing to look on 
and say ‘’tis cowardly done.’ ” 

Father Forest smiled in secret triumph. He knew, what 
William Roper did not, that the prior had already recanted. 
Having been driven to the alternative of recanting or burn- 
ing at the stake he drew back. His judges had alternately 
coaxed and threatened him until he finally yielded. 

“To-morrow, my son,” said the friar, “thou wilt have an 
opportunity to witness his recantation at St. Paul’s.” 

The young man hung his head, conscious that he had 
spoken hastily, and did not utter another word during the 
meal. He was also conscious that certain eyes were fixed 
upon him from the other side of the table, They had been 
thus employed during this colloquy, sometimes in entreaty, 
sometimes in warning; they now expressed sorrowful re- 
proof. As soon as the meal was over he retired to his 
room, and did not join Margaret in the afternoon to study 
Plato, as had been his wont. Nor did she see him after the 
evening meal. 

The next morning early William Roper, accompanied by 
Hal, made his way to London in Sir Thomas More’s barge. 
He looked pale and excited, and during the sail he did not 
speak a word. This was not strange, since he was naturally 
reserved, and owing to the difference between himself and 
Hal in age, and perhaps, too, to the latter’s dependent posi- 
tion, he had never conversed with him freely upon religious 
subjects. The case might have been different had he known 


66 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


tliat such subjects were uppermost in the lad’s mind ; and 
that the lad’s heart carried a secret of which it longed to 
unburden itself to him but dared not. 

On arriving at the city they started for St. Paul’s church, 
and soon found themselves preceded and followed by a large 
number of persons. At length they were not able to move 
at all on the sidewalk. Those around them remained where 
they were, as though awaiting some spectacle, which soon 
appeared in the streets. First came a large, stern-looking 
man leading several fellows who bore long staves, some 
with weapons at the end resembling swords, and others 
with a broad, hook-shaped blade, having a short pike at the 
back and another at the summit. 

“ Here is the warden of the Fleet and his billmen,” said a 
man beside Hal to his companion. “ Heaven deliver me 
from their hospitality.” 

Following these walked six men in penitential dresses 
with fagots on their shoulders. One of them, a large, 
square, slow-moving Dutchman, carried a lighted taper 
weighing five pounds. 

“This comes,” said the man to his companion, “from 
bringing over the books of the heretic Luther, and circu- 
lating them withal. Had this rascally Dutchman and the 
rest minded their own business and let Luther alone they 
would not have got into trouble.” 

“ Marry,” was the reply, “ better not learn to read at all. 
Meseems this is the great curse of the land. Had I my 
way I’d make a law to hang all the schoolmasters and 
printers.” 

“Ay, in sooth,” said the man. “Meseems one of the 
billmen should prick up the Dutchman.” Many rude ex- 
clamations were now hurled at the latter from the crowd. 
“ But dost see the prior ? ” 

“Hay, which be he?” 

“Yon man whoweareth a priest’s dress, and hangeth his 
head the lowest. Nathless he can’t hide it. By my soul 
he’s weeping.” 


DEFECTION. 


67 


Hal knew that the priest with scholarly brow, and bright, 
intelligent eyes filled with tears of shame, was Dr. Barnes. 
Some sympathy was evidently felt for him, and rude words 
were spoken against the cardinal, of whose injured vanity 
he was known to be the victim; but he became the 
object of much coarse ridicule, which seemed to sink into 
his heart so that he was hardly able to drag his steps along. 
Hal noticed the look of scorn on William Koper’s face, and 
the curl of the lip, while his voice rang out, “ ’Tis cowardly 
done;” but in the tumult it was not regarded. 

After the six penitents marched an officer of the king’s 
household, — as appeared from his livery, — and several 
constables who carried staves tipped with metal. 

“ These,” said the man near him, “ are the knight-marshal 
and his tipstaves.” 

The procession passed on ; and the crowd moved forward, 
carrying William Roper and Hal with it. 

It was eight o’clock when they arrived at the church, 
which they found thronged. At another time they would 
have gazed at the pictures, shrines, and tabernacles on its 
walls, and silver-plate, and illuminated missals on its high 
altar, and its other glittering ornaments. But now an 
unusual spectacle engrossed their attention. On a platform 
Avhich had been erected in the centre of the nave sat Wol- 
sey in all the pomp of purple and gold, occupying the centre 
of a brilliant array of abbots, priors, and bishops, — thirty- 
six in all, — in gowns of damask and satin. Opposite the 
platform, at the foot of a large crucifix, called the rood of 
Northern, which was over the north door, inside some rails 
a fire was burning, and there were great baskets full of 
books. Near and in front of the platform was another on 
which stood the penitents with the fagots on their shoulders. 
Conspicuous amongst them were the prior, ap})arently 
bowed down with grief and mortification, and the Dutchman 
with his impassive face. Soon one of the bishops — Fisher 
of Rochester — arose, and entering a new pulpit made for 
the occasion, began to preach. During the delivery of the 


68 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


sermon the penitents, as they were required, knelt and 
made confession. And, at its close. Dr. Barnes turned to 
the people and made some humiliating statement. But it 
was all dumb show to Hal. The hubbub was so great that 
he could not hear a word.* Every one present helped to 
make it. And William Roper’s high, shrill voice was heard 
but a few feet from where he stood, “ ’ Tis cowardly done ! ” 
After this Wolsey and his retinue of priors and bishops 
walked under a canopy to the second gate of the church, 
when he left, and they returned to where they had been 
sitting. The penitents were then led down by the knight- 
marshal and the warden of the Fleet, to the place within the 
rails where the fire was burning, and they marched three 
times around, casting their fagots into it. Then the con- 
tents of the baskets were given to the flames; and a 
general howl burst forth spontaneously from the great 
multitude gathered in St. Paul’s church. It was a howl of 
triumph from some, of grief and almost despair from others. 
William Roper joined in it, for he saw copies of works that 
had, as he thought, imparted to him a new life, and would 
prove the salvation of England. Hal joined in it, for he 
saw books resembling that which was as dear to him as 
his heart’s blood. And now the penitents were led back 
to the platform, and they knelt down before the bishops for 
absolution. Then Fisher arose and said a few words to the 
people, the import of which Hal was able to catch. He 
declared that their sins were forgiven for a certain number 
of days on account of their presence at the sermon. He also 
absolved Dr. Barnes and the others, and made known that 
mother church had received them back to her loving arins.f 
“’Tis cowardly done!” screamed a voice. In the com- 
parative quiet it was heard, and it rang through the church. 
Fisher looked sternly in the direction from which it came. 
But the speaker had vanished. As the crowds were dispers- 
ing Hal sought in vain to find him. At length seeing him 

* “Hugh Latimer,” by the Rev. R. Demaus, p. 54. 

t Graphic accouut iu Fox, vol. U., p. 437. 


jbEPECTlON. 


69 


in a little group of persons that were standing by the fire he 
j)laced himself by his side. All the books had been con- 
sumed except one which had fallen from the pile. It looked 
very much like his own. He thought it might be Wick- 
liffe’s Gospel, of one of the evangelists, perhaps the Gospel 
of John. It lay quite neai* him. He could almost touch it 
by thrusting his arm between the rails. The venture would 
be perilous. He looked around him and found that he was 
standing alone. Master Roper and the others had left. 
Just then a burning brand fell upon the book. Now or 
never ! He was about making an effort to save it, when he 
was startled by a hand laid upon his shoulder, and a voice : — 

“ Have a care, Hal, or thou’lt burn in lieu of the book.” 

Hal turned around, and saw a large, tall, splendid-looking 
man, dressed in all the finery of the period. He recognized 
him at once. It was the captain of the gypsies. 

“Duke Hearne ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Hush ! ” said the man in a low tone. “ I have come to 
see what all this coil is about, and raeseems it is about 
nothing.” The book was now burning. He pointed at it, 
and said, “ Thou wilt burn like that ere long unless thou 
joinest us to whom thou dost belong. We are a jolly 
company as thou rememberest, I wot ; and in the matter of 
religion we agree alway with those in whose company we 
chance to be.” 

Hal remembered that when he had been wdth the gypsies 
they showed respect to various religious ceremonies when 
in villages ; but that they had none themselves, save the 
wife of Duke Hearne, who observed faithfully her private 
devotions. He therefore asked a question which had often 
occurred to him while in Sir Thomas More’s family : 
“What is your religion, Duke Hearne?” 

“We have none,” was the reply. “I tell thee sith I ken 
thou wilt not speak on’t. With the Egyptians we worship 
Isis and Osiris, or the sun and moon : with the Turks Alla, 
and we are the disciples of Mohammed ; with Europeans 
God, and we are followers of Jesus. But we agree with 


70 


THE BOY-LOLLABH. 


neither. We have no religion, as we have no country, and 
we want none.” 

Hal trembled at these words, whicli were spoken in 
almost a whisper, and felt that he ought not to listen to him 
farther. 

The man went on : “We are much better than Christians, 
sith we allow every one to think as he lists on religion.” 

“ Zaida,” murmured Hal, for she was uppermost in his 
thoughts as soon as he saw her father. 

“Come with me,” said the man eagerly, “and thou shalt 
see her as erst. Her blood is noble. Zaida’s mother belonged 
to a noble Spanish house; and Zaida’s father,” — he lifted up 
his head proudly, — “ is of a race higher than thine, than her 
mother’s even, a race who ruled over a great country in 
Egypt.” 

“ Please tell me, Duke Hearne,” pleaded the lad, “ who 
are my parents?” 

A malignant glance shot from under the long dark eye- 
lashes of the gypsy. “ Who are thy parents, sayst thou ? 
Who should they but Duke Lee and his wife? Thou’lt 
find no others. Thou art gypsy tlirough and through. 
Duke Lee’s family was akin to mine. Wouldst thou exchange 
him for any one of these foolish lords who do not deserve 
to lick the dust from his shoes ? ” Hal began to feel uneasy. 
The terror he used to have when in this man’s presence — 
and in some way he had excited his displeasure — came 
over him, and he was leaving the spot. 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed the man in a low tone, “ slinking away, 
untrue to thy gypsy blood ! An thou darest ope thy mouth 
concerning me or my people thou’lt rue it.” The fearful 
scowl on his brow evinced to the lad that he would cer- 
tainly do as he said. As Hal issued from the door he 
saw William Roper surrounded by a little company and 
gesticulating fiercely. 

“ That is all ye do,” he cried ; “ burn books instead of 
answering them with other books, and men instead of ]fit- 
ting other men against them in fair, logical fight. Thus 


DEFECTION. 


71 


ye’ll burn the Bible when it conies; and e’en the godly 
translator of it, as ye would his Master himself an he were 
in the flesh. Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of.” 

Such bold language coming from a young man of rank, 
as was evident from his dress, had a quelling effect. Besides, 
there were some there who knew him. Hal heard the 
words uttered in a low tone, “ son of the king’s attorney- 
general,” “ future son-in-law of Sir Thomas More,” “ bitter 
dose for the cardinal.” Evidently there had been a fierce 
discussion, and these words had closed it; for the little 
company, amongst whom were several friars and priests, 
began to disperse. As Hal accompanied William Roper to 
the boat, and all the way to Chelsea, the latter was like a 
slumbering volcano. At the dinner-table he began to emit 
smoke and fire, but the host’s ready sarcasm silenced him. 
For several days he did not venture to speak on religious 
subjects, even when it was told amid chuckles of merriment 
that Thomas Bilney, the learned heretic of Cambridge Uni- 
versity, had taken an oath “ not to preach any of Luther’s 
opinions, but to impugn them everywhere,” and that Bil- 
ney’s convert and friend, Latimer, had shown the white 
feather, though that was not true. 


CHAPTER X. 


AKRIVAL. 

Tempests are calm to thee, they know thy hand, 

And hold it fast as children do their father’s, 

Which crie and follow. Thou hast made poore sand 
Check the proud sea, ev’n when it swells and gathers. 

Herbert. 

S OON after the events recorded in the last chapter a tall, 
dignified gentleman and a short, dignified lady made 
their appearance at Chelsea. They were the parents of 
William Roper. They had come ostensibly to make a 
friendly visit ; but really to consult with Sir Thomas More 
concerning their son, since they had of late received a letter 
from him of which that young gentleman was largely the 
subject. After some protracted conferences it was decided 
to take William back with them to their residence at St. 
Dunstan’s, in the suburbs of the city of Canterbury, and ere 
long to send him to the continent on a visit to some friends 
of theirs, to whose hospitality and instruction he was to be 
commended. It was thought a change from the heretical 
atmosphere of London to the Catholic traditions of Canter- 
bury, and from the society of Lollards at home to the com- 
panionship of the stanchest sons of the church abroad, 
might be of benefit to him. When the three left Chelsea 
Sir Thomas gave William Roper a letter to John Cochloeus, 
of whom the reader not long since heard. 

A month had elapsed since their departure, — a long and 
anxious month to Margaret More, — during which time she 
had received but two letters from her lover, and those at long 
intervals. A brief one at last arrived, simply informing her 
that he was to take a certain vessel, bound from London to 
Antwerp, on the next day, in the little port of Whitstable, six 
miles from Canterbury. Margaret received it in the evening 

72 


ABBIVAL. 


73 


and instantly gave orders to Hal to start early next morn- 
ing for London, to go on board the vessel, accompanying 
William Roper from Whitstable to Antwerp, and to return 
as soon as possible with tidings and letters. Lady More 
railed at this as needless expense; and when Margaret 
replied that William might be sick, and need Hal’s atten- 
tion, she exclaimed, “ tilly-vally ! ” “I shall ask Providence 
on my knees to give ye a quiet sea,” said Margaret, putting 
a letter into Hal’s hand as he left. 

William Roper expressed great surprise and delight at 
seeing Hal. While reading Margaret’s letter over and over 
again, he asked all sorts of questions about her, and assured 
Hal that she had failed to receive several of his epistles. 
The reader should be informed that the postal arrangements 
of that time were very uncertain. When Master William 
had satisfied himself with the letter he became taciturn, and 
said little to Hal during the remainder of the voyage. 
They arrived at Antwerp in the night, after a peaceful and 
pleasant sail. The prayer of Margaret seemed to be 
granted. 

Early in the day they left the comparatively silent 
wharves, lined with vessels, and rode through the not yet 
crowded streets until they reached a narrow one over- 
shadowed by lofty houses, when they entered the low gate 
of the English House, — a large block where the English 
merchants lodged. 

After they had partaken of a substantial breakfast, Hal 
was told by William Roper that he might have the day to 
himself to roam where he pleased. “ It hath lost the charm 
of novelty to me,” he said, “ sith I have been here before.” 
The young gentleman was abstracted and sad, and evidently 
wished to be alone. As the lad surmised, he was about to 
write a long letter to Margaret More, to be sent on the 
morrow if a vessel should then sail for London. 

Hal could get but a faint idea of the richest and most 
flourishing city in Europe during that day’s stroll. It 
was late in the afternoon when he found his way back to 


74 


TUE BOY-LOLLARD. 


the English House. He stopped to gaze at the cathedral of 
Notre Dame directly in front of it, which was the most 
beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture in the Nether- 
lands. Soon the silver chimes began to ring, and he was so 
transported witli their sweetness they seemed to him the 
music of heaven. Listening till they had entirely ceased 
he still remained rooted to the spot, lost in memories of the 
far back, and dim, very dim past, especially of a mother’s 
tender love. Music often had a similar effect upon him, 
why he could not tell. At lengtli, coming to himself, he 
turned to enter the gate, when what should meet his 
astonished eyes but the round and laughing face of Chris- 
topher. 

“ Thou here ! ” exclaimed his friend. “ What meaneth 
it ? Hast run away from Meg More ? ” 

Hal made a brief explanation to him. 

“ Ay, ay,” replied Christopher, “ I see. Master William 
Roper needeth tutoring, but meseems no one can do that 
better than Meg More herself. Now note. Friend Hal, how 
Providence is on our side. Meg More hath been trying to 
prevent our meeting together for several weeks, keeping 
thee snugly at home, and treating us so coolly the last time 
we visited Chelsea as to prevent our going there sithence. 
But she sendeth thee to Antwerp to take care of her lover 
an he should be sea-sick, and thus she sendeth thee directly 
to me. Questionless thou wilt sail with me to London in a 
vessel which is to start to-night under the command of 
Captain Loots; the same who carried a lighted taper at 
Dr. Barnes’ recantation. Ashamed enow he is of it. About 
as much so, I trow, as the poor doctor, who hath been in 
prison ever since.” 

“Did not Bishop Fisher say that mother church had 
received Dr. Barnes back to her loving arms ? ” asked Hal, 
surprised. 

“Ay, ay,” replied Christopher, “such loving arms as a 
prison, and what is worse, an accusing conscience. Then 
thou wast present. Oh, I remember, Master Roper was 


ARBIVAL. 


75 


seen on tliat occasion, and eke was heard, ha, ha, ha ! 
But come, let us see what he saith to your returning with 
me to-niglit.” 

That young gentleman, who was found in his room, called 
back his thoughts sufficiently to grasp his visitor warmly by 
the hand. When Christopher suggested Hal’s speedy 
return with him the impatient lover gladly assented. He had 
written a letter to Margaret long enough to make up for 
those she had not received, and a very brief epistle to Sir 
Thomas. 

The next morning Hal, with the two letters in his pocket> 
was standing beside Christopher on the deck of a vessel 
that through the night had been speeding its way toward 
England. A mighty secret had just been told him, — that 
this vessel, and four others that followed it, contained the ex- 
pected New Testament; that the dreaded invasion of Holy 
Scripture was about to take place. Christopher declared 
that he should not have dared to tell him if the latter had 
not been able to keep the secret of his manuscript from the 
lynx-eyed Sir Thomas More and his daughter Meg. “Some- 
how, Hal,” he exclaimed, in a whisper, “ I place thee with 
my sister Edith. There is something in thy face that saith 
thou wilt be prudent, but true to the death. As to Edith, 
timid girl as she is, I verily believe she would be torn limb 
from limb rather than betray a trust.” 

Hal’s face suffused with a flush of modest joy. 

The two were standing at the prow of the vessel by them- 
selves, and were closely watching the English shore, which 
had been for some time in sight. 

“What are those specks, thinkest thou, friend Chris- 
topher,” asked Hal, in a low voice, “flitting hither and 
thither? Heaven forefend they be the cardinal’s myrmi- 
dons.” 

The two looked anxiously at them for quite a while, till 
Christopher replied joyfully, though in tones scarcely above 
a whisper, “ The specks thou sawest are fast changing into 
friends, for in sooth they bear no hostility about them. Me- 


76 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


seems I recognize some of them. Dost not thou, Captain 
Loots ? ” 

The person addressed had just approached them. He was 
recognized by Hal as the penitent who bore the lighted 
taper. Without replying he eyed carefully for some time 
the figures that had attracted their attention. 

“ Thou art right, Master Christopher,” he said at last, very 
deliberately, and with a Dutch accent, turning slowly toward 
them his ponderous form and his impassive face as he spoke. 
After a pause he spoke again : — 

“ The greatest foe of the papal church is about to land, 
natliless, no signal waves anywhere ; ” and he pointed to 
several eminences in sight on the top of each of which was a 
flagstaff. “ Let there be a sudden invasion of the enemy, and 
from those flagstaves the signals would wave to give the 
alarm.” The explanation was given to Hal by Christopher, 
not the captain, whose huge bulk had already begun to roll 
away. “ Those broad shoulders,” he said, looking at them 
and laughing, “ are able to bear the responsibility that rests 
on them. He hath more wit than he seemeth to have.” 

Several passengers passed near them. Some wore anxious 
faces, and were watching the banks of the river, — they were 
proceeding up the Thames, — where appeared occasionally 
interested spectators. But others on board, amongst whom 
were several priests and friars, were evidently ignorant that 
tlie huge bales they could have touched with their hand 
contained, amid stuffs from the Holland looms, many copies 
of the New Testament in English, just translated for the 
first time from the Greek by William Tyndale. 

Hal trembled ; and when they were again by themselves 
he asked, “Thinkest thou the bales in this and the four 
vessels behind us will not be examined on landing? I 
heard some one say the authorities had been charged to 
guard the seaports lest the books be brought there.” 

Christopher laughed hopefully. “Fear not. Wolsey 
hath his head too full of ambitious schemes to find room for 
aught else ; and Tunstal is in Spain on public business ; and 


AEBIVA L. 


77 


the rest think that the late recantations have frighted us all. 
Ha, ha, ha ! They wist not what they were doing when 
they let Captain Loots out of prison, for a stancher gospeler 
cannot be found. He’ll bring over more New Testaments 
than any other man, and circulate more withal, an we catch 
the enemy napping, as we shall, I trow. And eke I feel well 
nigh certain the books will be safely landed,” — his face 
sobered for an instant, — “ sith niy mother and sister have 
been praying for it.” 

After a while came the orders from the captain, pro- 
nounced very deliberately, to cast anchor and lower the 
boat. As soon as the passengers from this and the other 
vessels had been carried to land, the boats went to and fro, 
speedily unloading the vessels. In an incredibly short 
time many shoulders, broad and eager, were bearing off the 
heavy burdens, the lads following at a distance. It was 
now dusk, and no suspicious eyes watched a sight so 
common. 

“ Methinks if these bales contain many books,” said Hal, 
“ they must be too heavy for these poor men to carry.” 

“ Aha ! ” exclaimed Christopher, “ they are heavy enow I 
warrant thee. Notice how they stagger under them, though 
they do their best to walk erect and straight, as though the 
bales contained only what they seem to. By my faith, Dick 
Braynton doth his part to perfection.” 

Hal, looking in the direction of Christopher’s finger, 
noticed that a tall, stout yeoman, whom he had seen at Mr. 
Monmouth’s table, led the men. But he did not lead them 
far. Coming to a large building they entered. 

“We have seen the books safely lodged, thank Heaven,” 
said Christopher. “Let us hie us home to supper.” 

There were grateful hearts in Mr. Monmouth’s household 
when the lads arrived with the welcome news. 

All had retired for the night. Hal seldom slept at the 
Monmouth mansion without dreaming of his mother. This 
he attributed not only to the maternal kindness of Mrs. 
Monmouth, but also to the canopy of curtains adorned 


78 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


with flowers and religious emblems that covered his bed. 
Had he ever seen anything like it before ? Somehow it was 
associated with one whom in childhood he called by an 
endearing name ; and she bore a marvelous resemblance to 
Mrs. Monmouth. And yet he had about come to the con- 
clusion that this was mere fancy. 

But Hal’s dream was now broken off in the middle. He 
was awakened suddenly by the cheery voice of Christopher, 
who stood over him with a lamp and a laughing face. 

“ I am sorry to disturb thee, Hal,” he said, “ but I must 
ask thee to come down stairs. The family are all up. I tell 
thee there’ll be scant sleeping in a great many houses to- 
night.” 

While Hal was dressing, Christopher went on : “ Those 
precious bales which we saw deposited, or rather the 
precious books in them, were afterwards, under the cover of 
the friendly darkness, carried to the house of Master Thomas 
Garret, in Honey Lane, curate of All Hallows ; and Dick 
Braynton and many others are now distributing them over 
London. He hath just been here and brought some copies. 
Ha, ha, ha ! I can’t help laughing to think how those five 
Hanseatic captains have outwitted Wolsey and Fisher and 
Sir Thomas More.” * Christopher capered about the room, 
giving way to extravagant demonstrations of joy until Hal 
was ready to accompany him below. 

As they entered a private parlor Hal saw Mr. Monmouth 
and his wife and daughter each holding a quarto volume 
and examining it carefully, several volumes like it being on 
a table near them. Christopher eagerly sprang forward, 
seized two of them, and handing one to Hal was soon deeply 
engrossed in the other. 

A printed book was then something of a rarity. Printing 
by movable types originated about 1440. In 1471 — but fifty- 
five years before the period of which we are writing — the 
first book in English was printed at Cologne, and the 

* See account in D’Aubigne’s “ History of the Reformation,” vol. v, pp. 264, 
265, 266. 


ARBIVAL. 


79 


art was imported to England a year or two afterward.* 
During that century only one hundred and forty books 
were issued in England. f But a printed New Testament 
in English was more than a rarity ; it was something new 
under the sun. Neither they nor any one else had seen 
one before. No part of the Scriptures had been printed 
in English except the “ Seven Penitential Psalms,” by 
Bishop Fisher ; and that was more of an exposition than 
a translation. $ Even Wickliffe’s Bible, which had appeared 
about one hundred and forty-six years before, had never 
been printed. § 

Hal was for awhile so much engaged in examining the 
precious volume as to be completely oblivious to his sur- 
roundings. At length, looking up, he noticed that the 
others were as oblivious of them as himself. Close to him 
stood Christopher, the enthusiastic collector of books and 
manuscripts of Scripture, his round face beaming with serious 
delight. Beside her brother stood Edith, her blue eyes 
fixed upon the pages as by a spell, and a look so pure, so spirit- 
ual, on her sweet face that it seemed hardly of the world. 
Then came Mrs. Monmouth with her face of tearful interest, 
resembling more strikingly than ever that which blessed 
his early childhood. At this moment Mr. Monmouth 
exclaimed, — 

“ God be praised ! God be praised ! The work is done, 
and I trow well done. England is saved, and Sir|| William 
Tyndale is, under God, its savior.” 

Placing the book, whose leaves he had been turning over 
with a loving reverence wdiile speaking, on the table, he 
cast his eyes upward and said, “It is meet we should offer to 
God our tribute of thanksgiving.” And as they all knelt 

* D’lsraeli’s “ Amenities of Literature,” vol. i, pp. 342, 343. 

t Hallam’s “ Introduction to the Literature of Europe,” in four volumes 
1872, vol. i, p. 250. 

t ” The English Hexapla,” p. 25. 

§ His New Testament was first printed in 1731. Anderson’s “ Annals,” In- 
troduction, p. 25. His whole Bible was not printed till 1850. Bissel’s “ Historic 
Origin of the Bible.” 

II A title given to a priest. 


80 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


he jDOured out his soul in gratitude that such a man had 
been raised up, one fitted in stru mentally to bestow uj^on 
the nation the greatest boon infinite goodness could bestow; 
that he had thus far escaped the malice of the wicked, and 
given the truth to his countrymen in their own mother 
tongue; that such a strange stupor had been sent upon 
Antichrist it had landed without the slightest opposition. 
He then pleaded earnestly for the king, that he might give 
it a welcome in spite of all evil counsellors ; and that it 
might go to every palace and cottage in the land, and work 
out the salvation of dear England. It was a prayer fitted 
to inaugurate this new dispensation of a printed gospel. 

The remainder of the night was spent very pleasantly in 
reading and conversation. Often one read aloud while the 
rest listened. 

After breakfast, as Hal was about leaving with Christo- 
pher, — who was to take him to Chelsea in the barge, — Mr. 
Monmouth gave him one of the volumes and said, — 

“ Thou wilt need to be greatly wise, for Sir Thomas More, 
though a Reformer in some ^-espects, hateth Wickliffe and 
Luther, as thou wottest, and will be exceeding mad against 
Master Tyndale when he heareth of what he hath done. 
The circulation of the Scriptures, ay, our lives and thine 
own depend on thy secrecy.” 

The first thing Hal did on his return was to give Marga- 
ret More her letter and her father’s. Sir Thomas being 
absent; and the next was to deposit Tyndale’s New Testa- 
ment in the wall beside his manuscript. 


CHAPTER XI. 


COMMOTION. 


What moved thy mynde by malyce to consent, 
To brenne goddis woi’de, the wholy testament. 


William Koy and Jekome Barlowe. 


HE Spring of 1526 had passed, — the time of the arrival 



-L of the English New Testament.* Meanwhile Hal had 
been kept at home, closely confined to the study of Greek, 
which he had just commenced. No errands had taken him 
to London, and Christopher and Edith had not visited 
Chelsea. He had had therefore no opportunity of hearing 
how widely the English New Testament had been circu- 
lated. Indeed, if he had not known of its arrival, he would 
not have learned it at Sir Thomas More’s table. Evidently 
those who gathered there from day to day could not yet 
have been informed of the fact. He had read already the 
Gospel of John, comparing it as he went along with his 
manuscript. 

• On one of the warm days in July William Roper sud- 
denly appeared. Margaret More was delighted, for she 
attributed his early arrival to love for herself. That was 
one reason ; but if she could have looked into his heart she 
would have discovered another. The churchmen abroad to 
whose care he had been comtnitted were of too extreme and 
violent a character to benefit him ; especially John Coch- 
loeus, who, according to a modern writer, was “ perhaj)s the 
most virulent enemy to the word of God being translated 
into any vernacular tongue who ever breathed.” t He was 
prudent enough to listen respectfully to all they had to say 

* Demaus dates its arrival April or May, 1526. Demaus’ “ Tyndale,” p. 148. 

t Anderson’s “ Annals,” p. 49. 


82 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


to him, although he contrived to obtain a few secret inter- 
views with those who were in sympathy with the Reforma- 
tion. When he had learned from the latter that tlie Englisli 
New Testament had landed safely in England he deter- 
mined to go back at once. An earnest desire to see the 
book and assist in its circulation, as much as his love for 
Margaret More, caused his early return. 

Not long after his arrival Hal surprised the lovers seated 
in the arbor; and lo! William Roper was reading aloud 
Master Tyndale’s New Testament, which he at once slipped 
into his pocket. 

It was soon evident to Sir Thomas More that he had not 
changed, though he said but little. Again the shadow vis- 
ited the eyes of both father and daughter, which deepened 
as the young gentleman began to express himself more 
freely. Sir Thomas dealt with him differently from what 
had been his wont. He allowed him to go on and say what 
he had to say without check; and then he mildly expostu- 
lated and reasoned with him. But this did not work well. 
Perhaps the young gentleman got tlie better of his future 
father-in-law, certainly he waxed bolder and bolder, and at 
length declared himself called of God to preach these senti- 
ments, even though it should be at a great cost ; and he had 
the audacity to ask him to procure a license to preach from 
the king. Sir Thomas then lost all patience, and shut the 
mouth of the incipient reformer with the caustic rejdy: — 

“ Is it not sufficient, son Roper, that we that are your 
friends should know that you are a fool, but that you should 
have your folly proclaimed to the world ? ” * 

The knight afterwards wrote of persons who were so un- 
fortunte as to be in a similar state of mind : “ Such a 

scabbed ytche of vayn glory catche they in theyr prechynge 
that though all the worlde were the worse for it, and theyr 
owne lyfe lye thereon, yet wolde they longe to be pul- 
petyd.” t 


* More’s “Life of Sir Thomas More,” p. 122. 
t Southey’s “ Common Place Book,” p. 6. 


COMMOTION. 33 

Lady More now interfered. Taking Margaret aside, she 
said : — 

“ William Roper is a proper lad, and thou knowest I like 
the match. But why not say to him at once, ‘ leave your 
silly notions or leave me?’ ’Twill not take him long to 
decide, I trow. That’s the way to bring the men round. 
Talk about conscience ! Tilly-vally ! ” 

Lady More’s wisdom was decidedly secular. She had no 
taste for religious discussion. When any of the family en- 
gaged in it she would either be silent, or declare that it was 
beyond her comprehension, and she should leave it to the 
priests, and it would be better for them to do the same. 

At length Hal heard news in regard to the English New 
Testament ; and it became the topic of excited conversation 
at Sir Thomas More’s table for several days. The observing 
lad gathered from what was said that a copy had fallen into 
the hands of Bishop Standish ; that he then took it in great 
wrath to Wolsey, who therefore summoned his prelates, 
when Standish in the bitterest language entered his com- 
plaint ; that Wolsey at first was not disposed to pay much 
attention to the matter; but that when Tunstal strongly 
advocated prohibiting the book, the politic cardinal seemed 
to change his mind, and gave judgment that it should be 
burned, to which all present uttered their loud approval.* 

The conduct of Standish and Tunstal was warmly com- 
mended, while Wolsey ’s was spoken of with no little covert 
censure. 

William Roper found it difficult to hold his peace. “ Did 
not Bishop Standish,” he inquired, “ hate the Latin New 
Testament of Erasmus as much as he doth this English New 
Testament ? ” 

Dark looks were exchanged around the table, for there 
were some present as hostile to the former as to the latter ; 
from respect to Sir Thomas More, however, they did not 
reply. 

* Edward Arber’s “English Keprints.” “E^de me and be nott wrothe,” 
pp. 117-120, 


84 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


But the host, with the shadow in his eyes, condescended 
to inform him that these ignorant translators — he had 
learned there were two of tliem, but had not been told their 
names — were not to be mentioned with the eminent scholar 
Erasmus ; that they were doubtless Lollards, who would be 
as easily frightened as were Barnes and Bilney and Latimer, 
their teachers. The impetuous youth bit his lips until the 
blood came, to prevent himself from speaking. 

But when at another time it was announced that the book 
was to be publicly burned the next day at Paul’s Cross his 
eyes flashed. He would have taken the English New Tes- 
tament from his pocket, declaring that they might burn it, 
but they could not burn the truths it contained, had not the 
eyes of Margaret prevented him. He dared not speak. It 
would ruin his earthly hopes. She had already forbade his 
reading it further to her, for its annotations bearing against 
the papal church angered her ; and she had requested him, 
if he had aught of love for her, to fling it aside. If now he 
should express his approbation of it in such a presence the 
tie which bound him to Margaret More would be sundered. 
The alienation would be complete and final. Her father 
had borne from him more than he would from any one else 
in the world ; but beyond this j^oint forbearance would cease. 
At least so thought the poor youth. Those eyes of Mar- 
garet had a tremendous meaning ; the shadow in them 
deepened as authority and warning took the place of en- 
treaty. The maiden won the victory. Sir Thomas noticed 
it with a quiet smile ; and surmised that it indicated in the 
end complete subjection to his daughter Meg and holy 
church. The sharp eyes of Lady More looked approvingly, 
for she thought Margaret was profiting by the advice she 
had lately given her. Hal gazed in wonder, and the fool 
sat with his finger to his puckered forehead. 

Was the victory final? A few moments after Hal, as he 
passed the arbor, heard some earnest voices. He knew 
without looking that they came from William Roper and 
Margaret More, and the pent-up feelings of the former had 


COMMOTION. 


85 


found vent. Before he was out of hearing there were sobs 
from Margaret. As he returned on another path, the arbor 
being in sight at one place, he saw the young gentleman on 
his knees, apparently asking her forgiveness, and — as he 
judged from the words that came to his ears — explaining, 
perhaps unsaying, what he had said a little before. 

The next day Hal was to accompany William Roper to 
London. As they were about leaving, Margaret appeared and 
kissed her lover fondly. Evidently the two had made up. 
What a fine-looking couple they were ! Both wei*e of medium 
height. Margaret had light brown hair and dark eyes, and a 
pale, thin, intellectual face; William had dark hair and eyes, 
and a thoughtful, brown, and ruddy face. Both faces indi- 
cated a strong will. Yet Margaret’s was superior to Williarft’g 
not only in respect to intellect but will ; and, besides, there 
was about it a certain sharp, satirical expression which she 
had in common with her father and the rest of the family. 
It was to be feared the young gentleman and not the maiden 
had comiu’oraised. Both the occupants of the barge that 
was making its way toward London felt like birds let out 
of a cage. William Roper had not been to the city since 
his return, Margaret having kept him constantly employed 
in reading Plato with her ; and Hal had not been there 
once during the months since his eventful voyage, and had 
not seen Christopher and Edith. 

In a short time William Roper and Hal were standing 
amid an increasing crowd before Paul’s Cross. This was 
in nearly the centre of St. Paul’s churchyard. It consisted 
of a simple stone platform of moderate size, a little elevated 
and reached by stone steps ; with a wooden pulpit upon it, 
in the form of a cross and covered with lead ; and over that 
a canopy and cross. Around it were seats — those belong- 
ing to the commonalty in the open air, and to the nobility 
in the covered galleries. On tKe present occasion they 
were all filled. In this spot, for three centuries at least, the 
people had been wont to gather, sometimes quiet and 
orderly, and sometimes noisy and turbulent. Here laws had 


86 


THE BOY-LOLLARB, 


been published and oaths administered. Here had found 
utterance the language of loving eulogy and spiteful invec- 
tive. Here si^eeches had been made promj^ting to loyalty 
and sedition. Here the most distinguished scholars and 
preachers of their time had been heard, and its demagogues. 
Here Wickliffe himself had spoken, as well as his persecu- 
tors ; and even Master Tyndale had j^roclaimed the truth. 
Here had trembled the voice of prayer and confession. Here 
heresy and vice had done open penance. This venerable 
structure had been for a long period honorably and disgrace- 
fully memorable.* To-day’s scenes were to add to its 
shameful associations. Not far from it a fire was burning, 
and the larger part of the multitude knew for what purpose. 
The excitement had become intense when Bishoj) Tunstal 
entered the pulj^it in all the pomj^ of his gorgeous robes, and 
began to preach with great violence concerning the recent 
translation of the New Testament, denouncing it as heresy 
and full of errors, — about three thousand in all, — and 
calling those who had been engaged in writing and circulat- 
ing it heretics.f There was a hush of respectful attention 
as the learned and courtly prelate proceeded, though tlie 
audience listened with various and excited feelings. Some 
of them were scholars, who, having examined the book, knew 
his charges to be false. Others, though not scholars, after a 
careful perusal of it had the same assurance. But* there 
were many present who had not seen it. Of the last the 
bigoted Catholics assented at once to what he said, and the 
wavering ones soon became decided in the wrong. And 
when, at the close of his discourse, the book was thrown by 
his orders into the flames, numerous acclamations of approval 
arose, as there would have been doubtless if men and women 
had been burned with it. 

The bishop left, but many of his hearers remained. Wil- 
liam Roper, not being under the authority of Margaret 

* Hopkins’s “ Puritans and Queen Elizabeth,” vol. i, pp, 168, 169, Timbs’s 
“ Abbeys,” etc., vol. i, p. 4. 

t “ Eede me and be nott wrotbe,” p. 46. 


COMMOTION. 


87 


More’s eyes, soon let his sentiments be known. They were 
hotly disputed by a brawny friar who stood near him, and 
soon a crowd of listeners gathered around them. 

“Ye hate printing,” exclaimed the young gentleman, 
“ sith it maketh known to the people what a nest of rogues 
ye are. Ye hate Greek and Hebrew, sith they are the orig- 
inal of Holy Scripture, and sith whosoever readeth them 
readeth your damnation. Ye hate the English translation 
of Scripture, sith it openeth the eyes of the poor peasants 
that they may see how they are gulled by ye all.” 

The monk was enraged. But he was too prudent to give 
utterance to his prejudices against printing and Greek and 
Hebrew before an educated person. As to the first he had 
never learned to read ; and as to the two languages they 
were to him other names for heresy. He inveighed against 
translating the Scriptures into the English tongue with all 
the coarse vituperation of the most ignorant of his class, 
though trying vainly to use the arguments of the most 
learned. It soon appeared that he was no match for his 
antagonist. All saw, even he himself, that he was being 
worsted. The monk would have yielded sullenly if he had 
not been more than a match for the slim student in physical 
strength ; and so he attacked him with his big fists. This 
change in the nature of the contest Master Roper did not 
relish. I do not say he would not have preferred an intel- 
lectual contest even under Margaret More’s eyes. Never- 
theless, he was able to defend himself for a w^hile. Soon, 
however, the monk was fast getting the mastery of him. 
And now Hal came to his aid. The friar sought to annihi- 
late the lad by a single blow, w'hich was dexterously 
avoided, when William Roper suddenly disappeared, — 
some friendly arm having snatched him away. Robbed of 
his prey, the ruftian in a fury aimed other ponderous blows, 
which the lad also avoided, planting, meanwhile, several 
well-directed ones between the eyes of the giant. The 
crowd were astonished at his courage and agility. But the 
fight was too unequal to last long. The friar, having sue- 


88 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


ceeded in grasping Hal with his left hand, belabored him 
with his right fist. Some in that brutal company who had 
taken delight in the affray now cried, “ enow, enow ! ” and 
when the friar had dashed him to the ground there were 
voices, “ shame, shame ! ” But as he was a noted pugilist 
no one dared to appear in defense of the prostrate boy, who 
would probably have been murdered if a large, splendid- 
looking man had not come upon the scene. 

“ What a cowardly set of hinds ye all are,” said he, “ to 
see a lad butchered before your eyes by a man of twice his 
size ! ” 

There were low, frightened exclamations of, “ The gypsy ! 
the gypsy ! ” and the people moved to the right and left as 
he strode through the crowd. The friar having slunk away, 
he tenderly raised up Hal, and bore him off senseless and 
bleeding in his arms. 


CHAPTER XII. 


GYPSIES. 


What care we though we be so small ? 

The tent shall stand when the palace shall fall. 


Gypsy Poetry. 



"HEN Hal came to himself he was lying on a pallet in 


a tent, with a handsome face bending over him, 


which he recognized as that of the nurse. She expressed 
the greatest delight as he opened his eyes ; but when, on his 
attempting to move, he uttered an involuntary groan she 
shed tears, exclaiming : — 

“ Poor lad ! I marvel he hadn’t killed thee. But thou 
art safe now. None of the cruel priests and bishops shall 
harm thee, I trow. I marvel he hadn’t killed thee. Poor 
lad ! Poor lad ! ” 

A man entered, whom Hal recognized as the husband of 
the nurse, and who was no other than his rescuer. 

“Aha, my lad,” said he, “thou hast the true mettle, me- 
thinks. But when thou dost battle take one of thine own 
size and strength. Thou kennest not he is called the fight- 
ing friar, and faith, there is not his match in all London. 
But here is one who can master him,” — he gazed compla- 
cently at his own sinewy limbs, — “ and who will sometime 
make him answer for the cowardly strokes he gave thee.” 

Hal attempted to speak, but the nurse forbade him, saying, 
“ Thou hast been sadly pounded, poor lad, and hast some 
fever. Thou must not talk, neither must we talk with thee.” 

The caution was a wise one. Ere long Hal was in a high 
fever, much of the time delirious. In his lucid intervals he 
was aware that the same handsome face was bending over 
him ; and that sometimes there was associated with it 


90 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


anotlier more attractive, and linked to tender memories of 
gypsy life — that of a young girl. Though amid a gypsy 
encampment only low voices were heard from the outside, 
while within the tent the utmost quiet reigned, save as it 
was broken by some one entering softly on an errand. 

But as his pains and fever began to leave him, and liis 
reason to' return, he now and then transgressed the injunc- 
tion of silence still almost playfully enforced. To his inquir- 
ies, “ Where am I ? Am I near London ? ” the nurse put 
lier finger on her lip and smiled, and said, “ay.” When 
he continued, “ Master Roper will be troubled about me, 
and try to find me ; you will let me go home as soon as I am 
able,” she again smiled with her finger on her lij^, and said, 
“ay.” As he asked her anxiously, “Tell me, O tell me 
about my parents, and I will bless thee ; promise me thou 
wilt tell me ; ” she whispered softly, “ Quiet, quiet, sweet 
Hal, ay.” But to the question, “Is that Zaida whom I 
have seen with thee?” her face brightened up, and she 
answered eagerly, ‘ Ay, ay, sweet Hal, and thou shalt see 
her when thou art stronger ; but no more.” No one could 
have performed the duties of nurse to the sick boy better 
than this woman. That title she had fairly earned, indig- 
nantly as she might disown it. It can be almost said she 
had earned another title to which she laid claim, since no 
one could have surpassed her in loving ministrations. More 
constant and affectionate care could not have been given 
the patient in the house of Sir Thomas More or of Mr. 
Humphrey Monmouth. 

At length she joyfully pronounced him convalescent; 
when he learned from her that he bad been lying there a 
month, and that she had at times feared he would not re- 
cover. It is wonderful what a transformation bad been 
wrought upon her while watching over her patient. She 
had become the embodiment of tender-heartedness, all her 
coarseness bad vanished, and her style of beauty had im- 
proved, assuming a refinement it did not possess before. As 
he began to sit up, she told him how much she had missed 


GYPSIES. 


91 


him ; how sorry she was she had ever beaten him when 
angry ; that she was to him all that a mother could be ; that 
if he went back the proud gentleman would certainly burn 
him. She showed at times a strange inconsistency. While 
calling him son, she treated him with a respect hardly be- 
longing to one who sustained that relation ; and once, while 
studying his face as if it awakened some old remembrance, 
she exclaimed, “ my dear young master ! ” and she did not 
correct herself, apparently not knowing what she had said. 
He now often saw her husband, who went by the title of 
duke. The name of this couple was Lee. He saw also, 
occasionally, other members of the company ; and they 
looked familiar to him with their oval faces, low foreheads, 
small hands and feet, and lithe, graceful movements. 

One day, when he was sitting alone in the tent — the nurse 
having left it — a young maiden entered of striking appear- 
ance. She was tall, graceful, of queenly mien ; jewels in 
profusion decked her person, which was habited in crimson 
velvet ; and her dark features were lighted iq:) with black, 
expressive eyes. Recognizing the playmate of his boyhood, 
Hal arose and advanced to meet her, and with a profound 
obeisance kissed her hand, while she received his homage as 
though she were a princess. But at the sight of his still 
pallid face, her proud look melted to tenderness and sym- 
pathy, bringing vividly to his mind how often when a little 
boy, to shield him from the blows of Lee for not calling him 
father, she had interposed, throwing her arms around his 
neck. 

“Zaida!” exclaimed Hal, “I have not forgotten my 
companion and friend whilom.” 

“ Then why, Plal,” she asked, the proud look returning, 
“ hast kept thyself aloof from her and her people ?” 

“ I have not from choice, Zaida,” he replied, “ sith I have 
desired to see thee and them oft.” 

“An it were so,” she rejoined, “thou wouldst have 
heeded thy mother and my father when they urged thee to 
come back to us,” 


92 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


“ Gratitude to my friends forbade,” was the reply, “ sith 
it was to leave them for aye.” 

“ And hast thou unlearned gratitude toward thy earlier 
friends ? Judge, silly boy, who thy true friends are. Here, 
under the protection of my father and thine, thou art safe. 
But, an thou exchangest us for those whom thou callest 
friends, thou wilt plunge into dangers of which thou dost 
not dream. Thinkest thou the secret of thy manuscri[)t 
can be kept much longer? And that other secret will 
come to light ere long. And then naught can save thee and 
Christopher Monmouth from the stake. What folly to sup- 
pose that thou couldst come over in the same vessel that 
brought the printed English New Testament, and keep it in 
thy possession, and not be found out sooner or later ! I tell 
thee thou wilt see love change to hate and kindness to 
cruelty in those who are so much better friends than we, 
forsooth, the instant thy secrets are known.” 

The maiden smiled at his look of surprise. “ I have seen 
thee oft. Is’t the first time thy dull eyes have recognized 
me save on the river-bank.” 

Hal remembered an old, gray-liaired minstrel, and his 
granddaughter, whom he had seen at Chelsea several times, 
the former playing on the harp, and the latter charming 
the whole household by her graceful dancing, and awaken- 
ing in his own mind associations for which he could not 
account. Christopher and Edith had spoken of her 
dancing with the warmest expression of admiration and de- 
light, for she and the minstrel had been at Mr. Humphrey 
Monmouth’s house several times. They must have been 
Duke Hearne and his daughter, both of them disguised. 
How different the gay dancer from the stately maiden that 
stood before him. 

“ The very same,” she said, — as though she had read his 
thoughts, — with a smile partly of amusement and partly of 
contempt. “ Questionless I can deceive thee again, and oft, 
sith I play many parts.” 

“ By your leave, fair Zaida,” replied Hal, “ I opine not. 


GYPSIES. 


93 


There was something about thee, when the granddaughter 
of the ancient minstrel, that stirred up far back and tender 
memories. Come to me again in what form thou wilt I 
shall know thee, I trow.” 

The eyes of the maiden looked softly, almost tearfully, 
upon him. “ Thou hast not really forgotten us, then. Why 
need I come to thee at all ? ” She put into his hand two slips 
of paper, which he found to be injunctions from Bishop 
Tunstal and Archbishop Warham to deliver up Tynd ale’s 
New Testament under pain of excommunication. “See 
what will come upon thee an thou returnest.” 

But Hal did not appear to be frightened, and even ex- 
pressed confidence that he, with multitudes of the best 
peojfie of the land, would escape unscathed. 

“ Foolhardy,” she muttered, “ as when thou didst attack 
the fighting friar. What art thou, with Christopher Mon- 
mouth and a few hot-heads, against king and priests ! Join 
them not again, but make thy home with us. No one dare 
molest any of our people.” 

“ Prithee, tell me, dear Zaida, by our innocent child- 
hood’s affection, who and where are my parents?” 

“ Hush ! ” whispered the maiden, softened by the appeal, 
but with a frightened look, “ speak not here of any father and 
mother than Duke Lee and his wife, an thou valuest thy life, 
sith there are some close by who may overhear thee.” 

Hal remembered how jealous the gypsies were of their 
females. He knew, therefore, that they would not allow an 
interview between the daughter of their chief and himself 
without the presence of eager ears and strong arms. 

“ Who should thy parents be,” she continued in her 
ordinary tone, “but those to whom thou art so much in- 
debted ? My mother belonged to a noble Spanish family ; 
but I ken not the name, nor do I desire to ken it. The 
gypsy life I have chosen. I would not exchange its freedom 
for the stiff customs and cruel laws of the gorgios;” — 
as the gypsies styled those who did not belong to their race. 
She then gracefully took her departure. 


94 


THE BOY-LOLLABD, 


The next day the captain of the company, Duke Hearne, 
entering the tent, greeted Hal kindly. After congratulating 
him on his recovery, lie said, “ I trow thou hast alvvay felt 
thyself to be one of us, sith thou hast been faithful, and 
never made known to the gorgios our language.” 

“ Had he done so,” put in tlie husband of the nurse, Duke 
Lee, “ he would have rued it, as would the gorgios also.” 

A sinister look passed over the faces of the two men. 

Ever since Hal had been taken from the nurse by Sir 
Thomas More he had preserved a remarkable silence con- 
cerning this people, especially their language. In reference 
to the latter, despite the most earnest efforts of Margaret 
More, he had kept his lips resolutely closed. He well knew 
that if he yielded to her wishes the gypsies would regard 
him as treacherous to them, and that not only himself but 
the family would somehow suffer in consequence. 

The two gypsies were dressed like noblemen, with doubl t 
and cloak and hose of velvet and embroidered. They were 
about to start for a neighboring fair, taking a few of the 
men with them. As they marched out of the tent the lad 
— though he had often seen them years before — was struck 
with their magnificent appearance. They were six feet 
high, well built, with jet-black hair, Grecian nose, fine olive 
complexion, large and beautiful eyes overhung with droop- 
ing eyelashes, white and brilliant teeth ; and they wore 
their rich garb with a peculiar dignity and grace. 

In the afternoon Hal went with the nurse into Duke 
Hearne’s tent, where he saw the captain’s wife and daughter. 
The lady wore a scarlet gown, open to the waist, exhibiting 
a very showy petticoat, her person being loaded with 
jewelry. As he bowed low, she spoke to him in the same 
kind, gentle tones he used to hear, when they sometimes 
sounded like sweet music amid the discords of quarreling 
voices, not infrequent in tlie camp. He had received many 
delicacies from her during his sickness, and had longed to 
see her. When living with the gypsies she had been to him 
more of a mother than the nurse, and had shown him 


GYPSIES. 


95 


peculiar symi^athy. As she qiiestioued him in regard to liis 
life in Sir Thomas More’s family she hardly repressed a 
sigh ; though she smiled when he told her that he had sung 
the Spanish ballads she had tauglit him to Margaret More 
and her father. This lady, in early life, had had her head 
turned by reading Spanish romances. Hearne, then a young 
man, appeared in her father’s castle in Spain, in the garb of 
a minstrel, and perceiving that the foolish girl had taken a 
fancy to him, laid siege to her affections. It was a bold 
venture. Obtaining several secret interviews, he told her that 
he was of even higher descent than herself, and could trace 
his ancestry back to monarchs who ruled countries greater 
than Spain. Displaying his magnificent person by a variety 
of handsome dresses, and graceful and easy in deportment 
and speech, she was captivated, and eloped with him, and 
they were speedily married after the gypsy fashion. Whether 
she ever regretted the step she had taken was not known. 
Hal remembered seeing her often sad, her face bearing the 
marks of tears. And now he noticed that she had changed 
considerably ; a half-score of years had told upon her, and 
her face had grown thin and wan. 

There were fifty families in the camp. As the lad walked 
througli it, recognizing many faces, it seemed as if he had 
been absent but a day, and that the occurrences of the past 
five years were a dream. He saw the same high-peaked 
hats with a narrow brim ; the same brown cloth jackets and 
red plush waistcoats beneath ; the same girdle of crimson 
silk, in which were stuck the scissors ; the same pantaloons 
of coarse cloth or leather, and stockings of a like material 
or woollen, though their garments were often in miserable 
plight. The men and women — the latter having grown 
ugly in their looks — eyed him suspiciously under their 
dark and gloomy brows; and the girls, who were pretty, 
shot curious glances at him from their jet-black eyes through 
tlieir long eyelashes, the long drops in their ears and the 
jewels on their whole persons quivering in an agitation of 
head and limb peculiar to them. But he mingled with all 


96 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


freely, since he evidently enjoyed the favor of Lee and 
Hearne, who were their leaders, though the latter was 
principal and loved to be called captain. There was a 
general lack of neatness in their tents, with which the finery 
on their persons strangely contrasted. The tents of the 
leaders were comparatively tidy, but even here the rich 
dresses seemed out of place amid broken and decayed 
furniture, and pots and kettles scattered about. But they 
were not more unsuitable than the English they spoke — 
which was like that of English gentlemen and noblemen — 
as contrasted with their gypsy language. The latter after 
a while began to be used by the families of the leaders in 
conversing with Hal, when they found, to their surprise, 
that instead of having forgotten it he could speak it with 
fluency. Being something of a linguist, he had at times in 
his leisure moments privately made it a study. And now 
the rest in the camp opened their mouths. Having kept 
silent before in his presence, since their English, what little 
they had, was of the most outlandish sort, at once they all 
talked together, and his ears were stunned with the uni- 
versal din. Zaida spoke English, unless she was excited 
and lost some of her calm stateliness. Sometimes she called 
Hal her pal, that is, her brother, and she looked pleased if 
he called her his pen, that is, his sister — as he remembered 
they used to call each other when they were children. The 
nurse besought him to address her as dye, f.e., mother, and 
her husband, Lee, as dadas, i.e., father. He now realized 
most painfully that the people were thoroughly godless. 
They believed in no spiritual world and had no dread of 
an hereafter. They were devoid of all religion, except a 
few trifling superstitions and legends. The men and svomen 
were either leaving, — the former on thieving excursions, 
and the latter to tell the fortunes of the ladies in the region, 
— or returning to engage in tipsy jollity or gaming. The 
wife of Hearne, however, was not in sympathy with this 
horde, and did not mingle with them save to be a check to 
their frequent disputes. She wore a cross upon her breast. 


97 


GYPSIES, 

which she frequently pressed to her white lips; and occa- 
sionally she would glide from the noisy camp, with an old 
Spanish breviary in lier hand, to some place of retirement. 
Zaida was less under the influence of her mother than of 
her father, of whom she was passionately fond, — a handsome 
and generally good-natured savage as he was. Though on 
familiar terms with every one, there was a quiet dignity 
about her that always elicited marked respect. As to the 
nurse her flow of animal spirits was incessant, and she was 
the jolliest person of the whole company. Hal soon per- 
ceived that her husband was jealous of her, and he surmised 
that she may have given him occasion, as she was fond of 
flirting with some of the men who were better-looking than 
the rest. One day Hal spoke to her of the resemblance to 
the cardinal which some had supposed he bore, when she 
cast a terrified glance at her husband, who stood not far 
from them and overheard the remark. No reply was made, 
but his eyes flashed fire, and not long after Hal knew from 
appearances that he had been beating her ; and as soon as 
they were alone she besought him, if he loved her, not to 
speak of the cardinal in her husband’s presence. To his 
earnest inquiries concerning his parentage, she assured him 
that Lee was his father and she his mother. 

Hal began to think of returning. But how could he do 
so? He was a sort of prisoner. Besides, the gypsy life 
was in some respects attractive to him. And then his 
gratitude to the nurse, — not to speak of Lee, — his almost 
filial regard for the wife of Hearne, and his indefinable 
interest in their daughter, stood in the way. But the cul- 
ture, the morality, and the religion of the Mores and the 
Monmouths, — especially the blue eyes of Edith, — and the 
books in the wall prevailed. 

One day Hal, accompanied by the nurse and Lee, entered 
Heame’s tent. He had become quite a favorite of the 
captain, whose disposition was better than Lee’s, though his 
wrath Avas terrible when kindled. The two leaders were 
treated with great deference, though Hearne was regarded 


98 


THi: BOY-LOLLABT). 


as superior. It was wonderful how they kept the peace 
with each other. This could be accounted for only from 
the fact that while Lee was quick, waspish, changeable, 
Hearne was calm, self-contained, resolute, and therefore 
had gained an ascendancy over Lee in the eyes of the com- 
pany which Lee himself dared not do otherwise than ac- 
knowledge. As both looked in good mood, Hal thought he 
would now ask permission of the captain to leave, and was 
about to make the dreaded request in the most modest and 
respectful terms possible when a gypsy entered, and, pros- 
trating himself before Hearne, informed him in the gypsy 
language that Sir George Templeton and a few friends 
desired to see him. Hal had already learned that the en- 
campment was on the grounds of that nobleman. Hearne 
instantly gave orders that they should be requested to enter 
the tent, when Sir George appeared, accompanied, to Hal’s 
great surprise and delight, by William Roper and Chris- 
topher Monmouth. The nobleman was young, and had a 
laughing, reckless face, and dashing manners. After bowing 
to Hearne and the rest, he looked at Hal, and asked his 
companions, “Is this the lad of whom ye were in search ?” 

“ It is he ! ” they exclaimed, joyfully. 

“ Your dukeship will remember,” he continued, address- 
ing Hearne, “we have made a covenant with each other. I 
promised thee a tenth of my cattle, a tenth of my hogs, and 
a tenth of my hens if thou wouldst take none of them 
without asking, and wouldst keep off all thieves. I have 
kept my promise ; thou hast kept thine. I jDromised thee 
thou shouldst stay on my land without hinderance, an thou 
wouldst not harm any of my family or tenants, and wouldst 
show a like favor to my friends. I have kept my promise ; 
thou hast kept thine to my family and tenants. But some 
of my friends complain of depredations on their premises ; 
yet of these I wdll say naught an thou wilt restore to my 
friend here his page. He will reward thee for the services 
thou hast done the lad.” 

William Roper then put a piece of gold into Hearne’s 


GYPSIES. 


99 


hand. The captain smiled as he tossed up the yellow metal 
and caught it, but Lee looked sulky and disjoleased. Chris- 
topher also put a piece into the hand of the latter, and 
noticing that Hal looked toward the woman who stood 
beside Lee, and guessing that he was in some way indebted 
to her, he bestowed another piece upon the nurse. 

The leaders, after consulting together for a few moments, 
decided to let Hal go. “Kushto bak” [good luck to you], 
whispered Hearne, good-naturedly. “Sarishan” [good 
day], whispered Lee, though there Avas a slight scowl on his 
brow. As Hal bade the captain’s wife and the nurse and 
Zaida good-by, they curtsied and said nothing; but the 
first smiled affectionately, the second quickly raised her 
handkerchief to her face, and the third kept a forced and 
dignified self-possession amid a group of gypsy girls, who 
Av^ere full of chatter and tremulous movement. He then 
proceeded Avith his two friends to the residence of the 
nobleman. As William Roper and Christopher were 
mounting their horses, the former taking Hal behind him 
on his double saddle. Sir George said, — 

“By my faith, lad, two persons felt bad to have thee 
go, — that handsome woman, the wife of Lee, and that 
Spanish beauty, Hearne’s daughter ; and meseems the last 
felt the worst. Now haste ye, lest mayhap some of this 
rascally troop overtake ye and do ye damage.” 

With many thanks they then rode rapidly aAvay. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AUDACITY. 


Who meenethe to remoofe the rocke 
Owte of the slyinie mudde, 

Shall myre hymselfe, and hardlie scape 
The swellynge of the liodde. 


Attkibuted to Henry VI. 


OR several miles the course of the travelers lay 



-L through an unbroken forest. Not a word was said 
till they had issued into an open space and were passing a 
little collection of lints. The two young men then checking 
the speed* of their horses began to express delight at having 
found Hal; and in answer to the inquiries they eagerly put 
to him, he gave a brief account of the beating he had 
received from the friar, and his long sickness. 

William Roper then made the following explanation : 
The friend who had snatched him from the brutal wrath of 
his antagonist did not notice Hal’s interference ; and he 
himself supposed till he had reached the boat that his page 
Avas following them. They then returned in search of him, 
but he could not be found. The crowd had scattered. 
Some persons whom they met, however, said they had 
heard that a boy had been nearly murdered by a friar, and 
a gypsy had carried him off. For a month William Roper 
and Christopher Monmouth did their utmost to find the 
fighting friar or any company of gypsies near London, but 
without success. Afterward it came to their ears that 
some of this people were encamped twelve miles aw^ay, on 
the estate of Sir George Templeton, with whom they were 
both acquainted. 

Hal was received at Chelsea almost as one raised from 
the dead. Sir Thomas himself was absent, but Margaret 


100 


AUDACITY. 


101 


kissed him fondly. “ Was this the gypsy band with wdiom 
thou didst formerly live?” she asked eagerly; *“hast seen the 
nurse ? hast heard aught concerning thy parents ? ” On his 
answering the first two questions in the affirmative, and the 
last in the negative, she assured him that her father would, 
when he returned, arrest the woman, and compel her to tell 
what she knew. Hal did not reply, alarmed for the safety 
of the nurse and dreading to have the truth known. To 
like inquiries of the Monmouths he made brief and embar- 
rassed answers. 

It was February 2, 1528, Candlemas-day as it was called, 
when Hal accompanied William Roper to the city in a gay 
little craft the latter had recently bought, two of Sir 
Thomas’s servants plying the oars. It was the young man’s 
own, and a nondescript, and several pleasant sails had it 
given him and Margaret, Hal often accompanying them. 
It had been Margaret’s wish that her lover should remain 
at Chelsea, for tlie day was to be religiously observed by 
the household. She had illuminated the little chapel with 
candles. Prayers were to be read, mass said, and a piece 
sung. In the last Hal’s voice would be decidedly missed ; 
for the reader should be informed he had become a favorite 
singer in the chapel service. The plaintive sweetness of his 
tones, in distinction from the other youthful performers, had 
a soothing effect upon the feelings, chasing away the not 
infrequent look of trouble from Sir Thomas’s brow, and the 
oft-recurring shadow from his eyes. But as there was to be 
a procession in London, headed by the king himself, Marga- 
ret did not urge William Roper to remain or leave the page 
behind. 

The ancient festival of Candlemas was established, as 
has been supposed, by Pope Gelasius in 494, or, according 
to some, under Justinian I. in 542. It commemorated the 
ceremonial purification of the Virgin Mary, the presentation 
of Jesus in the temple, and his meeting of Simeon and 
Anna. The time of its observance was February 2, forty 
days after the birth of Jesus. It may have been of heathen 


102 


TEE BOY-LOLLAEB. 


origin.* The name Candlemas was given because candles 
were used on that occasion, a custom jjrobably suggested by 
the words of Simeon when he took the infant Jesus in his 
arms: “A light to lighten the Gentiles.” 

Had Margaret More known why her lover wanted to keep 
Candlemas in London she might not have given her consent 
so readily. The evening before he had happened to meet 
Christopher there, who whispered something in his ear, 
the import of which we shall soon see. Hal was surprised 
when on landing they met Christopher waiting for them. 

“ I knew ye would come,” he said, “ nathless, it is a little 
late, and I trow we have lost some of the fun.” 

The three now made their way as rapidly as they could 
toward the streets through which the j^i'ocession was to 
pass. They found them filled with a multitude of people 
of all conditions, in a high state of excitement, which was 
evidently owing to a pamphlet some were perusing by 
themselves, and others were reading aloud to little knots 
that were gathered round them, and still others were hold- 
ing in their hand while engaged in fierce discussion con- 
cerning its contents. 

Hal noticed that William Roper was not surprised, and as 
he looked upon Christopher inquiringly the latter replied, — 

“ This is Master Fish’s pamphlet, which hath been 
scattered over the route through the night.” 

“ What is called ‘ The Supplication of the Beggars ? ’ ” 
asked Hal. “Metliinks I have heard of it.” 

“Ay,” replied Christopher. “An thou heard on’t from 
any of those it hit I would have given one of my father’s 
sliips, if I had it, to have seen his face.” 

William Roper smiled. “ That very face, I ween, belongs 
to yonder cowled monk.” He pointed to a man in the garb 
of a Franciscan friar, whom Hal recognized as Father 
Forest, standing on the edge of a crowd gathered around 
a peasant, who was reading aloud the pamphlet with the 
greatest earnestness. 

* ScJiatf’s “History of the Christian Church,” vol. ii, pp. 425, 426. 


AUDACITY. 


103 


“ Ton my soul,” whispered Christopher, “ that man read- 
ing is Dick Braynton. How dareth he show himself thus? 
But let's go nearer and hear him.” 

The last time Hal had seen him was, the reader may 
remember, at the landing of Tyndale’s New Testament. 
The lad had now an opportunity to study his bold, intelli- 
gent features, and listen to his loud, clear voice. His 
apjDearance and manner chained the attention of the crowd. 
Besides he was reading a remarkable production. It 
had been written in popular language, in the form of a 
supplication to Henry from the miserable beggars that so 
abounded in the land, “the wretched, hideous monsters on 
whom scarcely, for horrour, any eye dare look ; ” who declare 
to the king that their numbers are greatly increased, and 
their condition is made much worse by another sort of 
beggars — the Catholic clergy — whose greedy, lazy, licen- 
tious, arrogant, and seditious character they proceed to 
descrijbe. As the reader went on he was greeted only by 
rude exclamations of approval for awhile, but at length 
a loud voice was heard commanding silence, and forbidding 
him to proceed. It was the friar. Immediately rough 
hands were laid upon the latter, but the reader, stopping, 
begged the people not to injure him. He was, however, 
hustled out of the crowd, with garments torn, and some 
bruises, when the reader continued, in a very impassioned 
manner : — 

“This is the grerat skab why they will not let the New 
Testament go abroad in your Mother Tongue, lest men should 
espy that they by their cloaked hypocrisie do translate thus 
fast your Kingdom into their hands ; that they are not 
obedient unto your high power ; that they are cruel, unclean, 
unmerciful, and hypocrites ; that they seek not the honour 
of Christ, but their own ; that remission of sins is not given 
by the Pope’s pardon, but by Christ, for the sure faith and 
trust that we have him.”* 

At this instant several officers on horseback began to 


* Fox, vol, ii, p. 231. 


104 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


clear the streets, putting a stop for the time to these pro- 
ceedings. William Roper and Christopher and Hal were 
pushed upon the reader. 

«Why, Dick,” whispered Christoi^her, “is’t prudent, 
thinkest thou?” 

Before a reply could be made the three were carried 
away from him by the press. 

“ I marvel who that friar w^as,” Christoj^her said ; “ he 
may thank Dick that he did not fare worse.” 

“It was Father Forest,” William Roper and Hal replied. 

“ Father Forest ! ” Christopher exclaimed, in a whisper, 
“Father Forest! Then woe to Dick Braynton unless we 
find some way of saving him from the queen’s favorite.” 

And now the swaying of the crowd ceased, there was a 
solemn hush, and all fell upon their knees. The procession 
was passing. The king himself headed it, dressed as a 
knight of the Order of the Garter, of which order he was 
the superior. His doublet was white and crimson satin, 
striped ; his hose were scarlet, and slashed upward from the 
knee; his cap was deep red, and covered with jewels; his 
collar was golden, and studded with precious stones; his 
finger-rings were numerous, and glistened with diamonds. 
He was followed by eight other knights of the Order, 
dressed in the same style, though not so magnificently. 
Then came several noblemen of high rank. Each of this 
brilliant company bore a wax taper in his hand; the 
length of the taper, and even of the flame, was according to 
the quality of the holder. That in the king’s hand was 
of course longer than the others, and shed a more brilliant 
light. All the candles had been solemnly blessed by the 
priest, and the kneeling multitude looked upon them with 
superstitious feelings. Some of the crowd remembered, 
doubtless, the lines of the play : — 

“ Lord, wax betokyneth thyn humanyte, 

And week betokyneth thy soul most swete; 

Tone lyght I lyken to the godhede of the, 

Brighter than Phebus for al his fervent hete,” 


AUDACITY. 


105 


Never did Henry look more majestic than on this occasion. 
Slowly, solemnly he marched on, towering above the rest, 
“every inch a king,” the grandest-looking monarch of his 
time. Beneath all his finery, which that age did not deem 
unbecoming, there were high and commanding qualities. 
Ilis brow evinced intellectual force, his mouth indicated 
iron will, and his eyes expressed kindly feeling as he looked 
upon his loyal subjects — not one of them seeming to escape 
his notice on his right and on liis left. The latent sensual- 
ity and cruelty of that face, though it had begun to be 
detected and dreaded by those who were favored with the 
royal intimacy, had not become known to the people. He 
had been thus far one of the most popular of England’s 
sovereigns. Although he must have noticed the pamphlets 
in the hands of the bowed throng whose faces bore the 
marks of recent excitement, and scattered along the streets 
even under the very feet of the procession, he did not ap- 
pear displeased. Nevertheless, from their being addressed 
to him, and from the limited issues of the English press, 
he must have been familiar with their contents. As he and 
his train passed on the people arose from their knees, and 
began to ferment again. 

“His highness,” said an apparently well-to-do citizen, 
with quiet, determined eyes, who stood near William Roper 
and his companions, “will give these rascally monks and 
priests their due yet.” 

“Ay, sir,” said another, a man with an earnest coun- 
tenance, but of humbler condition, “and when the monks 
and priests are kicked out at one door the Word of God 
will come in without let at the other; and both his gracious 
highness desireth, I trow.” 

“I should like a last kick at the cardinal ere he goes out,” 
cried a peasant with rugged features and overhanging eye- 
brows ; “ ’twould do my soul good to see his red fur fly.” 

At this moment a loud voice was heard : “ Seize the here- 
tic in the king’s name!” and there was a rush toward the 
spot from whence it came. 


106 


THE BOY-LOLLABB, 


“ I fear me,” said Christopher, “ Father Forest hath got 
hold of poor Dick.” And the three were soon in a dense 
throng that surrounded the friar, several officers of Tunstal, 
and Dick Braynton, the last rapidly undergoing the process 
of being handcuffed. But it chanced that he had too many 
friends around him to allow of its being accomplished. 
After several broken heads on both sides he was rescued, 
and the friar had his gray cloak rent in pieces and his cowl 
torn from his face. 

And now came several men dressed in the livery worn by 
Wolsey’s servants, who busily employed themselves in pick- 
ing up the pamphlets still remaining in the streets. With- 
out heeding the curses, low and deep, hissed against their 
master from all sides, — having become accustomed to such 
demonstrations, — they gathered all they could find and 
quietly left. 

After this the crowds lingered, here and there a hot dis- 
j^ute going on ; but soon they began to retire to their homes, 
to be as easily stirred up against heretics on another occasion 
as they had been against monks and j)riests on this. 

Christopher persuaded William Roper to accompany him 
with Hal to his father’s house; and ere long they were 
seated at the dining-board. It was the first time the young 
man had sat there, though he had visited the family several 
times with Margaret More. Soon a discussion arose in re- 
gard to the candles of Candlemas-day; whether there was 
a supernatural power in them, if preserved, to calm the 
tempest, to ward off the lightning-stroke, to drive away 
evil spirits, indeed to keep one from the ills generally to 
which flesh is heir. You may smile, gentle reader, but this 
belief was generally held ; and I will venture to say that 
Margaret More and her father were not wholly free from it. 
The company present were surprised to hear William Roper 
plainly declare it superstitious, and express himself strongly 
against saints’ days, and many of the ceremonies of the 
church, thus placing himself on the side of the most ad- 
vanced Reformers. They were amazed to hear him quote 


AUDACITY. 


107 


largely from Luther’s works, in English, for they had been 
translated into that language and brought over to England. 
All who looked upon his honest, ingenuous face, in which 
they could read a tale of suffering for the sake of conscience, 
could not doubt his sincerity. Sorife felt a tumultuous joy 
at such a valuable accession to their little band. There was 
a silent prayer on his behalf in Edith’s blue eyes. The 
young gentleman felt that he was amongst friends. 

After dinner, as William Roper and Hal sat with the 
family in their pleasant parlor, he threw off all reserve and 
opened his heart to them. He declared that he had long 
sought peace of conscience by fasting immoderately, by say- 
ing a great many prayers, by waiting with the greatest 
tninctiliousness upon the rites and ceremonies of the church, 
and he had sought in vain : that he had at length found it 
in the great truth that comforted Luther, justification by 
faith alone. “ Since Christ died for me,” he exclaimed, “ all 
the things upon which I once relied are vain and su23ersti- 
tious. This I long to proclaim to the world ; and to do 
it I would gladly forego a good portion of my ample in- 
heritance.” Mr. Monmouth gave him some fatherly advice 
as to the course he should take, hinting that good works 
and religious exercises are essential, although they do not 
save. 

It was late in the afternoon when William Roper left the 
house with Hal ; but instead of going at once to the boat, 
he led the way to St. Paul’s church. A crowd had gathered 
there, and were listening very attentively to the choristers 
of the cathedral, who had ascended the spire to a great 
height, and were there chanting solemn prayers and an- 
thems.* “ Superstition ! folly ! ” he muttered, breaking the 
hushed silence, and causing shocked and angry faces to be 
turned towards him. It was perhaps well that he took a 
hasty departure. 


* Timbs’s “ Abbeys,” etc., vol. i, p. 2, 


CHAPTER XIV. 


EXPOSURE. 

Talk of war against the Turk ! The Roman Turk is the fellest Turk in the 
world. — Luther. 

M argaret more noticed the change in her lover 
when he came back on the evening of Candlemas- 
day; and she shrewdly suspected, though she asked no 
questions, that he had been with the Monmouths. She 
now resolved upon an utter separation between the two 
families. William Roper felt himself interdicted from the 
society of Christopher Monmouth ; and Hal, if sent to 
London on an errand, was required to return immediately, 
without stopping at the Monmouth mansion. As William 
was tractable, and rarely away from her, the shadow left 
the eyes of the maiden ; but it still lingered in her father’s, 
who saw that instead of having renounced his opinions he 
was only silenced. 

The More mansion had become a lively place. Mr. 
Dancy and Mr. Herond — two young gentlemen who had 
long been frequent visitors — were affianced to its bright 
and attractive daughters, Elizabeth and Cecilia More. 
Besides, John More — once the stupid boy, now the agree- 
able young gentleman — was betrothed to Anne Cresacre, a 
pretty young heiress, whose gentle, rippling laughter was 
often heard in the house and the garden. And Margaret 
Middleton had a suitor, who not only satisfied herself, but 
her mother. Lady More. The catalogue of lovers is not yet 
finished. Master Clement, the family tutor, had always 
been faithful to his pupils, especially to Margaret Giggs, the 

adopted child. He had spent an unusual amount of time 
108 


EXPOSURE. 


109 


with her when she was learning or reciting her lessons, 
under the plea of rendering assistance; but this was not 
necessary, as she was quick to learn and a fine scholar. He 
had manifested an uncommon readiness to show her little 
attentions on various occasions, because she was an orphan 
and even without brother and sister ; yet there was no need 
of such kindness, as she was treated like a daughter by Sir 
Thomas, and felt as much at home as any of the children. 
He had of late, in family worship in the little chapel, knelt 
and made his responses by her side, once affirming that her 
spiritual face was an aid in his devotions ; an excuse, how- 
ever, which was not appreciated by the rest of the house- 
hold. It now transpired that Master Clement was to marry 
Margaret Giggs. Had the poet Herrick been born in the 
earlier instead of the latter part of this century his lines 
might have been aptly quoted : — 

“ Help me, Julia, for to pray, 

Mattens sing, or mattens say : 

This I know, the fiend will fly 
Far away, if thou beest by. 

Bring the holy water hither; 

Let us watch and pray together: 

When our heads are thus united, 

Then the foe will flee affrighted.” 

The fool was now in his element. Always, of an evening, 
in retired corners of the house, or, if pleasant, in little nooks 
of the garden, would be seated the different pairs of lovers ; 
when, as he was a privileged character, he would surprise 
them, and utter a remark so pat and delicate that instead 
of offending it pleased them, and in the contest of wit which 
ensued he would often come off best. 

The breach between the Mores and the Monmouths was 
now rendered more complete, if possible, by the news that 
the English translation of the New Testament had been the 
work of William Tyndale, aided by one Roy, a Franciscan 
lyionk ; — though the latter was only an amanuensis ; — and 
that Master Tyndale had been assisted pecuniarily by London 


110 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


merchants, especially Mr. Monmouth. For months the 
worthy merchant received unqualified abuse at Sir Thomas 
More’s table ; and then came the news of the sack of Rome 
by the troops of the Emperor Charles V. The awful 
atrocities which they committed were charged to the influ- 
ence of Luther’s teachings. Sir Thomas boldly declared it 
to be the fruit of his doctrine of predestination. 

“For what good,” he said, “can a man study or labor to 
do who believeth with Luther tliat he hath no free will of 
his own.” He went on to say tliat he should be punished, 
because such a belief tended to the overthrow of morality.* 
When some one present remarked that many of its ad- 
herents were busy in circulating the English translation 
of the New Testament, though as yet they had eluded the 
officers, a darker shadow came into his eyes than Hal had 
yet seen, and he sternly pronounced them public enemies, 
worse than thieves, murderers, and robbers of churches.t 

Hal had shot up into a tall, Avell-formed youth, quiet, 
reserved, self-reliant. These natural characteristics had 
been especially fostered of late by his religious isolation. 
Margaret More was too much engrossed in her studies and 
in thoughts of her approaching marriage to do much more 
than hear his lessons. William Roper said but little to him. 
Sir Tliomas treated him coldly. Shut out from companion- 
ship with the Monmouths and their friends, he betook him- 
self the more to his manuscript and printed Scripture. 

One day Sir Thomas brought home with him a boy 
whose face bore the marks of good sense and integrity. 
He had met him in the household of a nobleman, who, 
seeing that he liked him, had made a present of him to 
Sir Thomas. Hal, on becoming acquainted with him, found, 
to his surprise, that he was a son of Dick Braynton. Jack 
Braynton was his name. He had imbibed his father’s senti- 
ments, and, with his father’s frankness, declared them, 
having already done so to several servants before he did to 

* “ Sir Thomas More : A Selection,” etc., p. 223. 

t Cayley’s ” Memoirs of Sir Thomas More,” vol. i, p. 138, 


EXPOSURE. 


Ill 


Hal. The latter warned him to be careful. He had learned 
to read, and had already obtained some education. He was 
delighted when Hal showed him his books in manuscript 
and print, and they read together many pages of the printed 
volume. 

The boy had been connected with the household several 
months when, on a certain afternoon. Sir Thomas called 
them together. There was an unusual sternness in the 
tones of his voice as he commanded Jack Braynton to come 
to him. The boy, wondering, stepj^ed out from the com- 
pany of servants who were standing by themselves, and 
knelt before his master. 

“Hast said,” demanded Sir Thomas, “that the bread and 
wine in the sacrament of the altar are not changed into the 
body and blood of Christ ? ” 

The boy looked up with his sturdy, honest face into Sir 
Thomas’s and replied, without flinching : “ Ay, sir, I have 
said so oft.” 

“ Who taught it thee ? ” 

“My father, sir, and Master George Joy, whom he set me 
to attend whilom.” 

A look of relief visited Sir Thomas’s face. “ I feared,” 
said he, glancing at Hal, “ that some one in my own house- 
hold had done it. Wilt unsay thy error here and now? 
Pause, ere thou refusest, for I shall not dally with thee. 
What booteth it ? Thou hast heard me explain the sacra- 
ment of the altar on Fridays.” Sir Thomas looked at him 
anxiously. 

“ I would not disobey you, sir,” replied the boy, “ but 
I cannot unsay what I believe.” 

Sir Thomas then nodded to one of the servants who 
held in his hand an instrument of punishment, consisting 
of several twigs bound together. Stepping forward, and 
stripping the boy to the waist, he began to apply it to his 
shoulders and back most unmercifully, each blow leaving its 
marks upon the quivering flesh and drawing blood. The 
fool rushed out of the room, Hal felt that he had the 


112 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


strength of a giant, and would have sprung forward and 
wrested the scourge from the hand of the servant if it were 
not for the evident folly of the act. He noticed that 
William Roper, who stood beside him, was greatly excited, 
but that the pleading, warning look of Margaret restrained 
him. After a while Sir Thomas said to the servant, “Enow; 
those in my household who utter heretical sentiments, or 
read heretical books, know what to expect.” * 

From this time Hal felt more like a prisoner than ever. 
He was rarely allowed to leave the place even on an errand; 
he was kept aloof from Jack Braynton ; and he thought sus- 
picious eyes were watching him. He dared not look at his 
hidden treasures as often as he had done. Besides, unwel- 
come news reached his ears, that Bilney had apostatized, 
bareheaded, and bearing a fagot in St. Paul’s church, in 
almost the same circumstances as did Barnes ; that Garret, 
to whose house the New Testaments had been brought on 
the night of their arrival, had recanted, and publicly borne 
a fagot; that several students of Cambridge, amongst 
whom was Mr. Frith, had been imprisoned for reading the 
New Testaments, and been compelled to march out of their 
place of confinement in procession, throw them into the 
flames, and then return ; that throughout Essex County 
many, who had been circulating and reading the books, had 
abjured ; that vast quantities of these volumes had been 
burned, some at St. Paul’s Cross. It was a time of loud 
and noisy triumph, in which Father Forest and other 
ecclesiastics joined, at Sir Thomas’s board. Hal trembled 
lest he should hear ill news of Mr. Monmouth — now aider- 
man of London — and his family. At length it came. 
The merchant had been arrested and thrust into prison. 
William Roper still kept his lips closed, his mind being 
taken up \vith his recent promotion to the clerkship at 
the court of the king’s bench, and his nuptials near at 
hand. 

Nevertheless the providence of God could prevent them 

* Cayley’s “ Memoirs,” vol. i, p. 138. 


EXPOSURE. 


113 


from taking place. Margaret was attacked by the sweat- 
ing sickness — a dreadful disease that then prevailed. She 
grew worse, and at length was given up by the physicians 
and everybody else. Her father, who tended her con- 
stantly, forgetting his stoicism, was beside himself with 
grief. He declared that if it should please God to take 
her to his mercy he would never meddle with worldly 
matters more. He went to the chapel, and there on his 
knees pleaded more earnestly for her recovery, it may be, 
than he had ever pleaded before. While thus engaged he 
thouglit of a simple remedy, which was tried at once ; when 
she began to recover, as it was thought, miraculously, in 
answer to his prayers. Soon she was restored to perfect 
health.* Rapturously as father and lover and sisters re- 
joiced, there was one heart that beat responsively to theirs, 
and that was Hal’s ; and as he sat beside her in the arbor to 
recite his Greek, his eyes tearful and dancing with delight, 
she kissed him. 

One pleasant morning in June the whole household issued 
from the mansion of Sir Thomas More. Domestic order 
and harmony reigned as usual, though every face shone 
with merriment and every voice proclaimed it. The air 
was filled with music, and the gayest colors were reflected 
by the sunlight. The centre of this scene was Margaret 
More. Her long and beautiful hair fell down her shoulders 
to her waist; the bridal veil of point-lace descended from 
the top of her peaked head-dress ; a modest blush suffused 
her cheeks, while a serene and restful joy was in her eyes. 
Lady More, Elizabeth, Cecilia, and John More, Margaret 
Giggs, and Margaret Middleton surrounded her. She was 
followed by Anne Cresacre and several beautiful maidens ; 
but the blue eyes of Edith Monmouth did not look from 
that little company, though none of them loved the bride 
elect so fondly and reverently as she. Sir Thomas walked 
behind, not partaking in the general happiness, but with the 
shadow in his eyes ; for was not his Meg, his best beloved 
* Roper’s “Life of Sir Thomas More,” pp. 27-29. 


114 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


clulcl, about to wed a heretic? Then came Mr. Dancy, Mr. 
Ilcrond, Master Clement, and friends of the family, and 
last the numerous body of servants in holiday attire. The 
procession was conducted by musicians, and bride-knights, 
and i)ages, one of whom was Hal. It seemed, as it moved 
on, a part of that delightful morning, with its cloudless sky, 
and refreshing air, and green grass, and sweet flowers. On 
reaching the village church it met the bridegroom and his 
party, consisting of the tall, dignified gentleman, and the 
sliort, dignified lady. Sir George Templeton, and others ; 
and never was William Roper’s face lighted up with a more 
radiant joy than when he walked with Margaret More into 
the church-porch, where the marriage service was performed 
by a priest. The couple then marched into the church and 
knelt before the high altar, where four ecclesiastics raised 
over them the care-cloth, and another priest pronounced the 
nuptial benediction. After their return to the house the 
company ])artook of a bountiful feast that had been pro- 
vided for them ; William Roj^er gave and received presents, 
and amid the merry-making that followed appeared the old 
minstrel and his granddaughter, who performed to the de- 
light of all present. 

This marriage was soon followed by that of Elizabeth 
More with Mr. Dancy; of Cecilia More with Mr. Herond ; 
of Margaret Middleton with a gentleman whose name is 
not known to us ; and then John More brought to Chelsea 
his pretty young bride. Lastly Master Clement espoused 
Margaret Giggs. All the couples lived at the old home- 
stead, happy in each other. Sir Thomas presiding in patri- 
archal style. His home became more famous than ever; 
more numerous visitors flocked to it, while poets vied with 
each other in extolling it as the seat of the purest domestic 
bliss. 

But such bliss was not without alloy, even in those hal- 
cyon days when true love has just united tw'o souls and 
made them one. A few months after the marriage of Mar- 
garet Hal noticed the shadow in her eyes, indicating that all 


EXPOSURE. 


115 


was not well. There was a deepening shadow also in Sir 
Thomas’s eyes. It could no longer be concealed, even from 
the former, that William Roper was a confirmed Lutheran 
and had been for some time ; and Margaret had not, as she 
had almost flattered herself, converted him back to Roman- 
ism. Not that he had intentionally deceived her; probably 
her too willing heart had construed his forced silence into a 
surrender. But now the husband opened his mouth where 
the lover was silent. The authority of a maiden over one 
suing at her feet was changed to the submission of a wife. 
Their discussions were frequent, but not, as before marriage, 
with any sign of yielding on his part. At table he was not 
afraid to avow his belief boldly, in the presence of Sir 
Thomas More and his distinguished guests. His business 
as clerk of the court took him away from Margaret a great 
deal, and he sought his old Lutheran friends and let his 
voice be heard amongst them again. And when the holi- 
days came, — which were the saints’ days, and were kept at 
Sir Thomas’s chapel with religious observances, — he spent 
his time by himself, poring over a German Bible which he 
had bought. Tyndale’s New Testament was often in his 
hands. He loved to be studying recent translations of 
Scripture which the church had condemned. Resenting 
the bitter language Father Forest used against them at 
table, he requested him to point out the errors they con- 
tained. This closed the pompous lips of the friar, since he 
had not read a line of either of them. But Sir Thomas 
began to indicate many unpardonable errors, as he called 
them ; for he had had license from Tunstal to read such 
books for the purpose of warning the people against them. 
He was especially severe against Tyndale’s New Testament, 
declaring that “above a thousand texts in it were wrong, 
and falsely translated ; ” yet when he began to specify 
them. Master Roper, who was a respectable scholar in 
Greek, was not convinced. “ He hath flung away words in 
ecclesiastical use,” saM Sir Thomas, “and taken others. 
He hath substituted congregation for church, seniors for 


116 


THE BOY-LOLLAEB. 


priests, love for charity, favor for grace, knowledge for 
confession, repentance for 2)enance, troubled for contrite.” 
Master Roper gpntended that Tynd ale’s words were better 
than the others, since they had not their misleading associa- 
tions, and he stood his ground bravely. All listened with 
breatliless interest to the discussion — all but the fool, who 
was looking profoundly into his plate, his brow more 
wrinkled than usual on such occasions. At length he jerked 
up his head, and burst into a roar of laughter, and ex- 
claimed, “ I have it, I have it ! Mix ’em up, mix ’em up ; 
for meseems they are as much alike as Master More’s and 
Meg’s eyes are at this moment.” The guests were amused 
at seeing the marked likeness to her father in Margaret, — 
the same irregular features and mobile Ups, precisely the 
same keen, gray eyes, and the same shadow in them. The 
discussion, however, still continued. Master Roper spoke 
of Tyndale’s mental acccomplishments, quoting from John 
Cochloeus, who pronounced him “ skilful in languages and 
eloquent ; ” and from Herman Buschius, the friend of Eras- 
mus, who said he was “so skilled in seven languao-es — 
Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, English, French — 
that whichever he spoke, you would suppose it his native 
tongue;” when Sir Thomas was obliged to acknowledge 
that “ before he fell into these frenzies he was taken for full 
prettily learned.” “ Then why not receive his translation,” 
asked Master Roper, “and correct its errors an it hath 
them?” “As it is easier to weave a new net,” replied his 
father-in-law, “rather than to sew up the hole of an old, 
even so it is less labor to translate the Bible anew than to 
mend heretical versions.” 

William Roj^er had expressed himself more fully than he 
had ever done before. In a short time he was summoned 
before Wolsey; but that prelate, out of regard to Sir 
Thomas More, after a friendly warning, released him. 

Hal now began to have his freedom again. The eyes that 
had been watching him were fastened with far more anxiety 
upon the straying son-in-law and husband. He read more 


EXPOSURE. 


117 


frequently the books in the wall. He had talj^s with Jack 
Braynton, and his interest in him increased. He accom- 
panied Master Roper to London occasionally, when he ob- 
tained permission to visit his friends. Mr. Humphrey Mon- 
mouth, after abjuring his religious sentiments, had been 
released from prison. Mrs. Monmouth and Edith looked 
anxious and sad. Mr. Monmouth wore a downcast face, as 
though he carried with him an accusing conscience. Alas ! 
how many, during those trying times, felt as he did, having 
been frightened into a like recreancy ! It seemed to Bilney 
that “ as for the consolatory places of Scripture to bring 
them unto him, it was as though a man would run him 
through the heart with a sword;” and that “the whole 
Scriptures sounded to his condemnation.” Bainham, after- 
wards, — of whom the reader has not heard before, — standing 
in his parish church of St. Austin, in the presence of the 
whole congregation, confessed that he had denied his Saviour, 
and warned them not to follow his example ; declaring that 
“ such a hell as was in his bosom he would not again feel 
for all the world’s wealth.” The poor merchant could 
hardly look his family in the face, or some of the brethren. 
Too many of the latter had been guilty of the same sin, 
with whom he prayed and wept with Peter’s supplications 
and tears, gaining Peter’s forgiveness. Christopher’s coun- 
tenance, however, had not lost its hopeful, even jolly ex- 
pression. 

“ Thou knowest not what a searching Sir Thomas More 
and Sir William Kyngston gave our house for heretical 
books at the time of father’s arrest,” said Christopher, laugh- 
ing, when the youths were alone together, “but, by my 
troth, they could not find all. They did not ferret out my 
treasures, I warrant thee. Thou oughtest to have seen Sir 
Thomas’s face, and heard his voice, for gentle as he pro- 
fesseth to be he was then a very savage.” 

“Were thy mother and sister frightened?” inquired Hal. 

“Not a whit. And when he demanded of them where 
the heretical books were they did not answer. And when 


118 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


he repeated the question to Edith, I wish thou couldst have 
beheld the look on her face ; it was the look of a hero. 
Marry, he got none save what he and Sir William found.” 

Hal caught Christopher’s enthusiasm, for he had seen that 
look before. 

“ Poor father,” continued Christopher, — feelings of sad- 
ness and of indignation chasing each other over his round 
face, — “was sent to prison, with charges against him num- 
bering more than the years of your life, — twenty in all ; 
and no thanks to Sir Thomas More that he is not there now. 
The exhibitions my father had given to scholars for their 
maintenance in the universities and his gifts to the poor did 
not move this stony-hearted man. Nor did they move 
Wolsey, who released him because of his workmen and his 
trade.” 

Sir Thomas More now began to lose all patience and hope, 
and he said to his beloved daughter one day : “ Meg, I 

have borne a long time with thy husband ; I have reasoned 
and argued a long time with him, and still give him my 
poor fatherly counsel; but I perceive none of all this can 
call him home again. And therefore, Meg, I will no longer 
dispute with him. Nor yet,” he continued, while the 
faintest look of encouragement visited his face, “will I 
give him over, but I will go another way to work, and get 
me to God and pray for him.” * 

Margaret threw her arms around her father’s neck, and 
wept on his bosom. “I have long prayed for him. Bate 
not of hope, dearest father; I see in him signs of yielding.” 

The look of encouragement grew brighter on Sir Thomas’s 
face. “Bless thee, dearest daughter, for the word.” 

The knight now observed toward the young gentleman 
an ominous silence. He ceased to argue with him, and took 
little notice of him. Margaret treated him in a similar way. 
She no longer pleaded with him, and shed no tears for him 
in his presence. He saw his peril as never before, of losing 
both father-in-law and wife ; and then what ? He began to 

* Roper’s “Life of Sir Thomas More.’’— Preface, 


EXPOSURE. 


119 


ask himself why he should cling to a cause so evidently 
ruined, a cause forsaken by all, as now appeared to be the 
case, especially when he had so much at stake. Besides, his 
beloved Margaret had presented him with a little one. It 
was not long before her two sisters and the young heiress 
became happy mothers. When he saw the other couples 
rejoicing in each other and in the new treasure given to 
them, he asked himself : “ Why should there be a separa- 
tion between me and one I love more than all the world, 
and who is doubly dear to me now?” At length one day, 
as he was clasping his child to his bosom, he exclaimed : 
“ Sweet Meg, thy religion shall be my religic.i, and thy 
church my church ! ” The overjoyed wife threw her arms 
around his neck and kissed him, while their mingled tears, 
bedewing the face of the babe, symbolized a union they had 
not experienced since their marriage. The weaker had 
yielded to the strongei*. Margaret More had conquered. 

Hal knew not how to account for the change in Master 
Roper at table. That young gentleman listened to the 
utterances of Sir Thomas More and Father Forest with 
apparent assent, though he said but little. There was a 
look of triumph, though covert, on the faces of the father- 
in-law and friar, but it beamed from the wife’s without 
disguise, mingled with the tenderest affection. Had Master 
Roper apostatized ? The youth could not believe it. , He 
had only been silenced again. The victory must be but 
temporary. His visits to the wall continued as frequent as 
before, not aware that watching eyes were again fastened 
upon him. On a certain afternoon, after spending an 
unusual length of time over his manuscript, he retired to his 
room. A sense of loneliness and orphanage came over him, 
and a foreboding of ill, why he did not know, save from a 
suspicion he may have felt of Master Roper’s stability. He 
never had ventured to open his heart to him, and yet he had 
always felt that he stood between him and harm. If, then. 
Master Roper should forsake him he would be without 
protection, and would be again a sort of prisoner, and 


120 


THE BOY-LOLLABE, 


perhaps, after a while, the love of the Mores would change 
to hatred — a fate from which he shrunk back with a feeling 
of terror. He knelt and tried to pray. There was one 
friend, to whom he felt that prayers had been offered on 
his behalf in childhood, who Avould not forsake him. And 
she who offered those prayers, whom he still persisted in 
calling mother, seemed to be by his side, encouraging him 
to utter petitions for guidance and succor. As he rose from 
lus knees the clock struck the hour for supper, and going to 
the door of his room he found it locked. 


CHAPTER XV. 


PUNISHMENT. 


There’s nothing left 
Unto Andrugio but Andrugio : 

And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take. 
Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. 

Marstox. 


A S Hal vainly tried to 0}3en the door the conviction of his 
- detection and disgrace flashed upon him. He felt that 
tlie time had come which he had been dreading; when the 
secrets long carried in his bosom would become known, and 
he would forever forfeit the love of those who were so dear 
to him. Throwing himself into a chair he covered his face 
with one of his hands, and rested his shoulder on a table 
beside him. He had remained some time in this position 
when a light step approached the door, and a person turned 
the key and entered. His heart told him it was Margaret, 
though he did not look up. 

“I have brought thee some food, Hal,” she said, “sith I 
feared tliou mightest be faint. I begged it of my father, 
who is much displeased with thee, and meant tliou shouldst 
go supperless to bed, as thou deservest.” 

She placed a part of a loaf of bread and a glass of water 
upon the table, and sat down in a chair opposite Hal. He 
was weeping. 

“Art sorry for the deception thou hast practised on us 
during all these years?” she asked, in a mollified tone. 

“ I am sorry that I have angered thee. Mistress IVIargaret, 
and Sir Thomas,” was the reply. “I had rather die than 
anger ye.” 

“ Then why do what thou must have kenned would anger 

121 


122 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


us?” she asked, indignantly. “All thy wicked doings 
have come to light at last. Thou meanest not what thou 
sayest.” 

At tliese words Hal removed his hand from his face and 
looked into hers. There was in it the same expression of 
truthfulness as when she first saw it, and an ingenuous grief; 
but the self-respect, the resolution of the tearful eyes and 
of the quivering lips she did not like. 

“ Art not ashamed that thou hast proved untrue to me, 
disobedient to my father, and returned all our kindness with 
the grossest hypocrisy from the time thou earnest here until 
now ?” 

The tearful eyes stoutly flung back the charge, and the 
quivering lips replied in a firm voice, “ Mistress Margaret, 
I have not thus returned it.” 

“ What meaneth, then, that heretical manuscript, whose 
poison thou hast been imbibing all these years, I trow, which 
thou hast kept hidden in the wall ? ” 

Hal’s face flushed crimson, and from his eyes darted a 
fiery light Margaret had never seen before. “ That man- 
uscript, Mistress Margaret, I have reason to believe was my 
mother’s ; it bears marks of her tears e’en now, and it is to 
me sacred. Pardon me. Mistress Margaret, if I say, I like 
not to hear it spoken of slightingly.” 

“ Thy mother’s ! ” echoed Margaret, in a sarcastic tone 
that cut Hal to the heart. “ Thy mother’s, sayst thou ! And 
who was thy mother, if not an arrant gypsy and vagabond ? 
Thou wouldst have her something higher, and not one of 
the cardinal’s creatures ; but better be a gypsy than a heretic. 
Marks of thy mother’s tears ; and thy mother a heretic ! 
Then what are her tears worth ? Pity they had not been 
preserved for thee in a bottle, that they might be more 
sacred to thee than all the relics of the holy saints. Thy 
mother a heretic ! Then thou wast born one ; and the same 
doom awaiteth thee which awJliteth her.” 

Hal dropped his head upon his hand and moaned ; for he 
had never heard such cruel words from Margaret before. 


PUNISHMENT. 


123 


“Nay, nay,” said she, relenting. “I will unsay that 
about thy mother. I have examined the book, and find in 
it no name of owner. It may not have belonged to the 
lady thou dost speak of — if she had existence in aught but 
thy dreams. I opine the gypsy was really thy mother, and 
she stole it from somebody, that she might sell it for a very 
large price, sith the transcriber, heretic though he was, was 
a beautiful writer. Now, Hal, I will ask thee a few ques- 
tions which I command thee to answer. Look into my 
face.” Hal did so. 

“ How didst thou get possession of the manuscript? Who 
gave it to thee?” 

The compressed lips made no reply. 

“Somebody must have put it into thy hands or thou 
didst obtain it by witchcraft. Answer me. Didst know 
when that pestilent translation landed? Thou dost still 
refuse to answer me. Didst come in the same vessel with 
it, in the company of Christopher Monmouth? Still no 
answer. Didst know who were engaged in circulating it? 
No answer. Beware how thou keepest thus obstinately silent, 
when other and sterner lips question thee. There are ways 
of making the refractory speak which I shudder to mention.” 

She arose to go, and had proceeded as far as the door 
when she returned and again took her seat. 

“ Hal,” she continued, as the hard tone of her voice began 
to relax,- “ I cannot go without one more effort to reclaim 
thee. I ought to have watched over thee more, and kept 
thee from the companionship of Christopher Monmouth ; 
and I should have done so an I had not a heavy burden at my 
heart, which, thank God, is now removed. For, Hal, I have 
loved thee ; and, strange to say, despite thy wicked conduct, 
I love thee still.” 

Margaret’s voice was now somewhat agitated, and her 
eyes were filled with tears; while Hal, forgetting the 
treatment he had received, threw himself at her feet, and 
seizing her hand kissed it with respectful and devoted 
affection. 


124 


THE BOY-LOLLAItD. 


“I know not wnat to make of thee, Hal,” said she. “At 
one moinent thou dost liold thy peace most perversely to all 
my questions, and at another manifest such regard.” The 
old sternness was coming back. “ Now, Hal, take thy seat 
again, and hear what I have to say. By long pleading with 
my father I saved thee from a public beating this afternoon 
like what Jack Braynton received. But I shall not be able, 
I trow, to save thee from one on the morrow ; for thy dis- 
obedience is known to the whole household, and discipline 
requireth that thou shouldst not escape without some 
punishment. Nathless, an thou dost humbly confess thy 
great wickedness my father may mitigate it somewhat, sith 
he loveth thee. But why do I speak to thee thus, sith thou 
hast not uttered a single word that implieth penitence on 
thy part.” 

“ Mistress Margaret Roper,” cried the youth, firmly, “ the 
manuscript — which I did not obtain by witchcraft — hath 
helped me to understand many of thy father’s religious 
teachings, and to join in his prayers. It hath eke been a 
strength and comfort to me of late. I would have made 
confession to thee, kenned T not tliou wouldst verily take 
from me what was good and not evil, and what seemed to 
me the only tie that bound me to my mother.” His voice 
trembled. 

“Couple not my father with the arch-heretic, Wickliffe,” 
was the harsh reply. “ It is wasting words to talk with 
thee. I see that I cannot save thee from the public beating 
to-morrow.” 

“Before I receive it,” replied he, “I demand a trial, and 
that I be heard in my own defence.” 

“Who and what art thou to speak thus?” she asked, 
amazed at his boldness. 

“ One, Mistress Margaret,” he replied, “ pardon me, whose 
blood may be as noble as thine.” 

The young lady’s lip curled. “Well, an it be, kennest 
thou what thou wouldst ask?” She shuddered. “The pun- 
ishment my father will give thee would be tender mercies 


PUNISHMENT. 


125 


compared with what Bishop Tunstal would inflict. In lieu 
of beating would be the stake. I misdoubt thou wilt not 
heed my words till it is too late.” Displeased and sad, she 
arose and left the room. 

The next morning, and at noon, some bread and water 
were brought to him by a servant, who left at once without 
speaking. Meanwhile he had attempted several times to 
pray, and was astonished at the cheerfulness he felt in his 
present forlorn condition. He had slept quietly through 
the night, and awaked with a stout heart. The Mores had 
never understood Hal so well as the Monmouths, and even 
the gypsies. Beneath an unusually delicate and sensitive 
manner, for a boy there was high spirit. And now the 
Friend of whom he had read in his mother’s book was 
nearer to him than ever, and uttering in his ear words 
which had been blotted by her tears in that evidently 
favorite fourteenth chapter, — “ Pees I leue to you my 
pees I gene to you, not as the world geueth I geue to you, 
be nott youre herte afraied : ne drede it.” 

The passage had not only been blotted, but lines had 
been drawn around it. He could not look upon it now, 
alas ! except with his mind’s eye, but he never saw it more 
clearly. The thought of escape occurred to him several 
times, but he rejected it with scorn. He determined to 
face Sir Thomas More, and plead his innocence, and — 
whether- it was of grace or nature it would be difficult to 
say — not to submit to the humiliation of a beating before 
the household. 

Early in the afternoon he had another visitor. Master 
Roper entered the room and addressed him in a kindly 
manner. He urged him to express his sorrow for what he 
had done, when he should be summoned, and promise to 
be a devout Catholic, assuring him that thereby he would 
escape with a lenient punishment. When he found the lad 
unyielding he became more vehement. 

“Leave these companions,” said he, “who have taught 
thee ISO naughtily, and renounce their errors. Thou canst 


126 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


have other and safer associates, and other and safer 
opinions.” 

Hal listened indignantly to the renegade, who had not 
only himself proved untrue to his friends, but tried to induce 
him to do tlie same. But he could not repress the anxious 
inquiry as to whether any liarm had come to Christopher 
Monmouth. Master Roper, however, witliout deigning a 
rejdy, went on : — 

“ Leave, my lad, this sinking ship, in which I was foolish 
enow to embark, nathless, have left it, sith I did not find the 
Master on board. He is only on board the ship of holy 
church, whose sails are now all spread, and she is making 
glorious headway.” 

When he found he could not persuade him he became 
angry and left him, saying he would soon rue his obstinacy; 
and there were ways of curing servants of it that were 
more roughly persuasive than speech. 

A few hours after a servant appeared and told him to 
follow him. The lad, obeying, entered a room where often 
the family, and sometimes the entire household, had gath- 
ered together to hear Sir Thomas give instruction on sub- 
jects of interest to them. It was the same room in which 
Jack Braynton had been beaten. All were assembled on 
this occasion. A fire was burning on the hearth, though 
the weather was warm. Sir Thomas stood beside a table 
on which were Hal’s treasures — his manuscript of John’s 
Gospel, and his Hew Testament in print. On one side 
of the room stood the different members of the family, 
amongst whom were Margaret and her husband, the former 
with the same look of displeasure and sorrow on her face 
as when she left him ; the latter with his eyes fastened on 
the floor; and Lady More with her arms akimbo, — an 
attitude she took when administering a scolding to any 
one connected with the family or household ; and the fool, 
seemingly sw^allowed up in a kind of comical distress, with 
his cross to his lips. On another side of the room were 
huddled the servants, and with them Jack Braynton, his 


PUNISHMENT. 


127 


eyes filled with tears; for though he would not weep for 
himself in such circumstances he could not help weeping 
for another. 

Though Hal had been a general favorite, he looked 
around him for a single expression of sympathy in vain, 
save on the part of the fool and of Jack Braynton. We 
can have no conception of the revulsion of feeling in the 
country generally at that time, caused by a charge of heresy 
against the most loved and honored. What, then, could 
Hal, who had been so thoroughly tainted by heresy, expect 
in the household of the Catholic, Sir Thomas More, — a 
poor, homeless waif, rescued from a gypsy, and nurtured 
as he could have been nowhere else, and treated almost like 
a son ! Sir Thomas ordered Hal to come to him. He 
obeyed, casting himself on his knees. Never was the 
shadow ill the knight’s eyes so ominous before. Pointing 
at the books, he commanded him to throw them into the 
fire. This was unexpected. Hal had supposed he would 
question him in regard to the manuscript, and during his 
confinement had thought out a' defence, which he had 
almost flattered himself would not be ineffectual. But he 
was not at a loss what to do. Still continuing on his knees, 
he besought the knight not to persist in his command, urging 
that one of the books was his mother’s, as he had reason to 
believe ; that the other was a translation by a good man ; 
that both were Holy Scripture, and in his conscience it 
would be sacrilege to cast them into the fire. A deathlike 
stillness pervaded the room, save as it was broken by the 
sobs of the fool, and his exclamations and entreaties : “ His 
mother’s, quotha! his mother’s! sweet master, don’t make 
him throw it into the fire ! This was my mother’s,” said 
the poor creature, raising the cross to his lips, “and ’twould 
break my heart to throw it into the fire. ’Tis all he hath 
that was his mother’s. Of my mother’s I have but this. 
Thou wilt not make me throw it into the fire ! ” he cried, a 
look of terror succeeding that of grief on his face, as he 
noticed the stern look of Sir Thomas fastened on him. 


128 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


“ Ay,” replied his master, in as stern a voice, “ unless thou 
dost leave the room at once.” 

The fool’s distress had been infectious, but the ludicrous 
haste with which he obeyed the command caused sup- 
pressed laughter even from those whose faces showed signs 
of tears. 

After this brief interruption. Sir Thomas turned again to 
the youth, who was still kneeling, and demanded, “ Wilt 
thou, or wilt thou not throw this vile trash into the fire? 
I shall not waste time with thee.” 

Hal did not hesitate, but responded respectfully, though 
firmly : “ Much as I love and honor you, sir, and grateful as 
I am for your kindness, which I can never repay, I must 
disobey you.” 

“ Well-a-day ! ” exclaimed Lady More, “ this is all you get 
for nourishing other folks’ brats ! ” A sigh and an angry 
expression came from Margaret. There were murmurs of 
amazement and indignation from most of the company. 
The sobs of the fool were again heard, who had ventured 
back, and was looking in at the door from an adjoining 
room. Sir Thomas commanded silence with an impatient 
wave of the hand. 

“There is only one way,” he said, in a quiet tone, as 
soon as stillness was restored, “of ridding the young as 
well as the old of heresy.” He then motioned to the 
servant who had chastised Jack Braynton, and who now 
held in his hand the identical scourge with which he had 
done it. The servant instantly stepped forward and grasped 
Hal’s doublet with the intention of stripping him for punish- 
ment, when the youth sprang to his feet. The knight, sup- 
posing he was about to obey him, checked the servant with 
his finger. 

“ Sir Thomas More,” cried the stripling, his tall form 
assuming a new manliness and dignity, and with a lofty and 
intrepid look on his countenance, “ I have been indebted to 
you more than I can tell, and I can only utter the poor 
words, I thank you. But there is something within me 


PUNISHMENT. 


129 


that forbiddeth my yielding to such indignity as this, — to 
be whii^ped like a bond-slave. Farewell.” 

Stepping forward he seized the manuscript, and with one 
leap he sprang to an open window back of the table, and 
with another sprang through it, and was gone. 

Taken by surprise, all j)resent stood where they were for 
a moment, as though spell-bound. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


LOLLARDS. 

Lo ! wyll ye see ? Lo! who would have thought it, 

That ye could so soiie from wine to bloud ha brought it? 

And yet, except your mouth be better tasted than niyne, 

1 cannot fele it other but that it should be wyne. 

And yet 1 wote nere a cause ther maye be whye, 

Perchauuce, ye ha dronke bloude ofter than ever dyd 1. 

Old Poem. — Anon. 

I T is said that a gypsy can run so fast that any one must 
be on horseback to overtake him. Whether Hal had any 
gypsy blood in him or not he was unusually lithe and fleet. 
After bounding through the open window he made for the 
grove. The latter was the beginning of a wood growing 
more and more dense. Its many paths were familiar to him. 
Taking one of them he soon distanced his pursuers, whom 
he had heard issuing from the house as he left the garden. 
He proceeded in this i)ath at the same rapid rate long after 
he was out of their hearing. At length it terminated, and his 
further progress was impeded by the interlacing branches of 
low trees. Thinking he might here find a hiding-place, he 
lay down and pulled liimself forward, but soon was so 
enveloped by the tangled mass that he could move only 
with extreme difficulty. Unable to return, he persevered 
for some time, when he emerged beside a shallow little 
stream. Springing from stone to stone he crossed it, and 
ascended a small eminence where grew a few stunted trees. 
As he looked about him in the twilight he perceived that 
the stream wound around the spot where he stood, making 
it an island. Wearied he sat down and reflected upon his 
situation. Thus far he had only thought of escaping the 
humiliation of a public beating in the house of Sir Thomas 

130 


LOLLARDS. 


131 


More, and of preserving his precious manuscript from the 
flames. He asked himself whether he should stay in that 
desolate place and die of starvation, or venture from it and 
run the risk of capture. Kneeling down he sighed forth a 
prayer, but there was a hopeful expression on his face as he 
rose. Picking his way down an opening in the hill to a 
sheltered spot, he threw himself upon some loose leaves 
and twigs, and soon fell into a slumber. The excitement 
through which he had recently passed did not allow it to be 
as undisturbed as it would have been two nights before 
in his chamber in Sir Thomas More’s mansion. He dreamed 
he was in full flight, having distanced all his pursuers ex- 
cept Margaret Roper. She was gaining upon him more and 
more. At length as he looked behind he saw the shadow in 
her eyes deeper than ever. It robbed him of strength so 
that he fell to the ground. Coming to where he lay she 
ordered him in sterner accents than he had ever heard from 
her lips to rise. As he stood up he was appalled. It was 
her face, and yet how changed; her white brow gathered 
together, and grew black as a thunder-cloud, and her eyes 
shot lightning. Wrath in man Hal felt he could look upon 
without flinching, but not wrath in woman, and that woman 
Margaret Roper. Falling on his knees he begged for mercy. 
“ Mercy ! ” exclaimed she, in the same hard voice, “ what 
have I to do with mercy ! ” And snatching the book from 
his hand, she tore it furiously into innumerable pieces. 
He suddenly woke to find it safe under his head, where he 
had placed it on lying down. Again he fell into a slumber, 
which for awhile was undisturbed, and then was visited by 
other dreams. He was at the Monmouth mansion, with 
Christopher and Edith and Mrs. Monmouth, and another 
lady who tenderly loved him, resembling her, and yet who 
was not his mother. But the scene changed too soon, and 
the Monmouth family were in prison ; and he, though longing 
to be with them, was in a deep, dark forest, sick, and to die 
alone. And now friends were bending over him. 

“ A proper youth,” says one. “ Who is he ? ” 


132 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


“ One they call Hal,” was the reply, in a somewhat familiar 
voice, “ who belongeth to the family of Sir Thomas More, 
and hath doubtless fled from his cruelty. But hush ! don’t 
let us wake the poor lad.” 

“ See how he clingeth to his book,” said the other. • 

Hal opened his eyes, and they fell upon a stranger and 
Dick Bray n ton standing beside him. 

“ Thou kennest me. Master Hal,” said th^ latter, perceiv- 
ing his look of recognition. “We came upon thee this 
moment, and I was telling my good friend who thou art 
when thou didst awake. We are sorry to disturb thy rest. 
But had we known yesternight of thy being here we would 
have given thee a better bed and food withal. Come at 
once with us and take some breakfast ; thou lookest weary 
and faint.” 

Following the two men a little way he descended to a 
cave that nature had dug out of the hill. At the entrance 
stood a dozen men coarsely clad in woollen, who were about 
to sit on a rude bench, around a rude table covered with 
a clean, white cloth, on which were some provisions. In 
the interior were several straw pallets on the ground. 
After Dick Braynton had spoken a few words of intro- 
duction a cordial welcome was given to the new-comer, 
when, a blessing having been asked by Dick, all sat down, 
Hal being placed at the right of Dick at one end of the 
table. 

Although the youth was hungry he could not help looking 
upon the marked faces of his companions, and reading there 
tales of wonderful resolution and suffering. Two of the 
men wore pictures of burning fagots in green cloth or silk 
on their sleeves. He knew what this meant ; that they had 
been suspected of heresy and condemned to wear them for 
many years, perhaps during their lives ; but if they left 
them off they were to be burned. He knew, too, that it 
separated them to a great extent from their friends and 
neighbors and countrymen, who were superstitious and had 
the fear of the prelates before their eyes, thus rendering it 


LOLLARDS. 


133 


difficult or well-nigh impossible to obtain employment.* 
The conversation, however, as the meal proceeded, was 
cheerful, and even sometimes humorous, no reference being 
made to whatever sad experiences they may have passed 
through. 

“We have hidden here at times for several weeks. Master 
Hal,” said Dick. “ Till lately we have been traveling about 
getting w’ork where we could, and when we thought any 
persons were on our track taking refuge in this place. For 
a few days the authorities have been on the search after us 
in the neighborhood, and we dared not leave ; and we should 
have suffered from lack of food an it had not been for Mis- 
tress Edith Monmouth. Early this morn, ere thou wast 
awake, she brought us provisions, — enow to supply us 
several days, I wot, — and spread tliis white table-cloth.” 

“Edith Monmouth!” exclaimed Hal, in the greatest 
amazement. “ How could she find ye here, and how dare 
she come?” 

Dick smiled quietly as he said, “One who can find Christ’s 
little ones and minister to them in the hovels of London can 
find us here. And as to fear it is not known to her when in 
the way of duty. A servant accompanied her. Ere we saw 
thee we spent a season in praying for her safe return.” 

“ Hal thought of the soft, yielding ways of Edith, and her 
mild blu« eyes ; but then he remembered the look of heroism 
he had seen on her face. 

“ Said she ought of Christopher?” he inquired, anxiously. 

“Nay, Master Hal,” was the reply. “Thou kennest not 
Master Christopher hath been for several weeks in Antwerp 
on business?” 

The youth then briefly gave the account related in the 
last chapter, prefacing it, however, with a description of the 
beating Dick’s son had received previously, of which Dick 
had heard. 

When he had finished Dick Braynton shook his head 

* “ The History of Popery,” by several gentlemen, 1736, vol. ii, pp. 367, 368. 
“ Nares’s “Burnet’s History of the Reformation,” vol. i, p. 45. 


134 


THE BOY-LOLLARI). 


slightly. “Pardon me, Master Hal, mayhap thou oiightest 
to have meekly received the stripes as did my poor boy. 
Thou hast angered Sir Thomas More, and he will not 
leave a stone unturned until he findeth thee. And eke 
he will be the more bitter against sweet Master Christopher, 
against whom mischief is devised, doubtless, sith it is 
known that he came with thee in one of the vessels that 
brought the New Testament. Nathless, I admire thy high 
spirit’' 

Hal had already arisen, and, interrupting, expressed his 
determination to go to London at once and inform the 
Monmouth family, that they might w^arn Christopher not to 
return at present. 

But Dick and the rest — who had been attentively listen- 
ing to the conversation — declared that it would not be wise 
for him to undertake it, as he would probably be arrested ; 
and that one of them would carry or send the word. 

The retreat, where Hal now found himself with this little 
company, had been occasionally a hiding-jdace for Lollards 
for generations. Here they had fled when pursued by their 
enemies; here too — it being but six miles from London — 
they had often held their religious meetings ; but afterward 
it was discovered by the officers and rich harvests of 
confessors gathered. Of late years, however, since this 
people were called, more generally, Lutherans, it was 
forgotten by their enemies. Only one way of access to it 
was known. Hal, it seems, had unexpectedly found 
another. And when he spoke of it great surprise was 
expressed. 

In a few hours the youth had become acquainted with 
each one of the company, and learned his history. The 
person whom he had first seen on awaking from sleep was 
William Brown. He was a brother of John Brown, of Ash- 
ford, in the county of Kent, whose history was well known 
to Hal. This good man, for expressing doubt to an ignorant 
and impudent priest, whether the latter by singing mass 
could save souls, had been cruelly tortured and burnt at the 


LOLLARDS. 


135 


stake in 1517.* William had stood beside John when in the 
agony of martyrdom, together with the wife and children 
and friends of the sufferer. But William Brown was not 
the only member of that little band who had seen a loved 
one endure this cruel fate. A brother of another, and a 
sister of still another, had been burnt before their eyes at 
Coventry in 1519, for teaching their children the Lord’s 
prayer, the apostles’ creed, and the ten commandments in 
English.! Two bore marks of persecution on their own 
persons, in 1521, in Lincolnshire, for reading some part 
of the Bible in English, since they had been fastened to 
a post, and their cheeks branded with a red-hot iron. All 
belonged to a society called “ Christian Brothers,” who had 
been actively engaged in circulating Tyndale’s New Testa- 
ment. They had jjrosecuted this work with marvelous 
zeal, although they knew that if caught they would suffer 
the punishment of fire. And now they were fugitives, and 
many of tlieir associates w'ere fugitives or prisoners with 
this dreadful penalty before them. Did they regret what 
they had done ? Had they accomplished nothing for Christ ? 
Had they not aided in scattering broadcast over the country 
the three thousand copies of the quarto edition,! and the 
three thousand of the octavo,§ published at or about the 
same date, and most of the five thousand copies surrepti- 
tiously issued by Dutch printers on speculation in the latter 
part of 1526 and in 1527. Indeed, this society had labored 
so secretly and wisely that they had about done their work 
before the authorities could put their finger on them. 

But Hal was especially drawn to Dick Braynton, who was 
•looked up to as the leader of the company ; and who, though 
brave as a lion was gentle as a lamb, and though full of in- 

* Fox, vol. ii, p. 8. 

t “ History of Popery,” vol. ii, p. 367. 

X Only one copy remains, and that in a very imperfect state, in the Grenville 
Library in the British Museum. Description of it in Demaus’s “ Tyndale,” pp. 
121-123. 

§ But a single perfect copy extant. It wants the title-page, and name of 
printer and trai^lator, and date. It is in the Baptist College in Bristol. Descrip- 
tion of it in D^iaus’s “ Tyndale,” pp. 123, 124. 


136 


THE BOY-LOLLABB. 


dignation against wrong, possessed feelings unusually tender. 
Dick also took a particular interest in Hal. 

“ Thou remindest me, Master Hal,” said he, “ of one whom 
I love and honor more than any other human being, my 
sweet mistress. Meseems, had her son lived, he would have 
resembled thee.” 

“ Was thy mistress a sister of Mrs. Monmouth?” inquired 
Hal, “ or bore she any resemblance to her ? ” 

Dick looked surprised. “Nay, Master Hal. My mistress 
was Lady Montague. She was not akin to Mrs. Monmouth, 
nor doth she resemble her. But the time hath now arrived 
for our evening devotions.” The sun was about an hour • 
high when Dick, taking Tyndale’s New Testament from the 
pocket of his doublet, began to read, while the rest gathered 
around him : — 

Moreover who is it that will harme you, yf ye folowe 
that which is good ? Not withstondynge happy are ye yf 
ye suffre for rightewesnessis sake. Ye and feare not though 
they seme terrible vnto you, nether be troubled : but 
sanctifie the Lorde God in youre hertes. Be redy all wayes 
to geve an answere to every man that axeth you a reson of 
the hope that is in you, and that with meaknes and feare ; 

havinge a good conscience, that when they backbyte you 
as evyll doars, they maye be ashamed, for as moche as they 
have falsely accused youre good conversacion in Christ. 

“ It is better (yf the wyll of God be so) that ye suffre for 
well doynge, then for evyll doynge. ^®For as moche as 
Christ hath once suffered for synnes, the iuste for the 
vniuste, for to bringe vs to God, and was kylled, as 
pertayninge to the flesshe ; but was quyckened in the 
sprete.” 

Hal had heard explanations of Scripture from the eloquent 
lips of Sir Thomas More, and from the no less eloquent lips 
of his daughter Margaret ; but he never listened to any, so 
heart-felt, so appropriate, so practical, as fell from the lips 
of Dick Braynton. And then he listened, as all sang the 
lines which John Brown had repeated at the stake : — 


LOLLAUBS. 


137 


“ O Lord, I yield me to thy grace, 

Grant me mercy for my trespass ; 

Let never the flend my soul chase. 

Lord, I will bow, and thou shalt beat. 

Let never my soul come in hell-heat.” * 

In Sir Thomas More’s chapel there were more cultivated 
voices ; but there was a music in the earnestness, the sin- 
cerity, the disinterestedness, the consecration, these ex- 
pressed, and the awe-stricken youth hardly dared join them 
with his own rich tones. When Dick, who acted as a kind 
of chaplain of the company, knelt down with them and 
poured out his soul in prayer, all evidently uniting with him, 
Hal felt that he was, oh, how much nearer heaven than in 
the chapel of Sir Thomas, or the village church at Chelsea, 
or St. Paul’s in London. After prayer there was a freer 
utterance of convictions than was usual even at Mr. Mon- 
mouth’s table! They were convictions forced upon plain, 
sensible men of God, not obtained from the schools but 
from the English Bible, as on their knees they compared 
the religion existing around them with that which was 
taught by Christ and his Apostles. 

“ Money spent in pilgrimages,” said one, “ serves only to 
maintain thieves and harlots.” f 

“ Pilgrimages,” said another, “ are visiting the poor, the 
sick, and the suffering, and ministering to them, t The 
pious maiden. Mistress Edith Monmouth, hath made more 
j^ilgrimages than the most devout palmer of holy church.” 

“ Why need we go to the feet when we may go to the 
head?” asked a third; “my conscience hath no lord but 
Christ.” 

“ Put a mouse in the Pyx,” said a fourth, “ and then we 
shall see plainly whether or not the bread hath been changed 
into the flesh and blood of the Creator of the world.” 

“ It is breaking the first commandment,” said Dick, “to 
bow down and worship what is naught but bread after all. 
He then quoted the following lines : — 

* Fox, vol. ii, p. 8. t Fox, vol. ii, p, 39. t Fox, vol. ii, p. 30, 


138 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“ Make of it wliat ye wyl, it is a vvafar cake, 

And between two irons printed it is and bake. 

And loke, where idolatrye is Christ will not be there, 
Wherefore lay down your burden, an idole ye do beare.” 

“ I say with Wickliffe,” said Mr. Brown, the brother of 
the martyr, who had read more than the rest, “that in the 
primitive cliurch there were but two orders, the priest and 
deacon, and all others spring from the pride of Caesar; 
that the priest’s office is only the ministry of the word, 
nothing else ; that he is to preach the gospel by virtue of his 
office, without waiting for license from the bishop ; and that 
he should be supported by the voluntary contributions of 
the people; and eke a layman may preach if he hath gifts 
like brother Braynton.” 

But the remarks were not all controversial. There were 
humble confessions of sin, earnest exhortations to depend on 
God for strength, and a holding up of the great truth that 
Luther preached after Paul, justification by faith. Nor 
was the spirit manifested toward enemies unkindly, though 
indignant expressions that may seem to us rude were oc- 
casionally used. 

One of the company had a little book of Wickliffe’s en- 
titled “The Pore Caitif,”* consisting of a series of tracts 
designed for the instruction of the poorer classes in the 
elements of the Christian religion ; and he read a few pas- 
sages from it. After he had spoken of the multitudes who 
had fainted in the hour of trial, and of the shrinking of 
spirit they themselves had experienced at its near approach) 
he declared his confidence that the people of God would yet 
be able to meet it bravely, and then read the following : — 

“ God playeth with his child when he suffereth him to be 
tempted; as a mother rises from her much beloved child, 
and hides herself and leaves him alone, and suffers him to 
cry, mother, mother, so that he looks about, cries and weeps 
for a time ; and at last when the child is ready to be overset 
with troubles and weeping, she comes again, clasps him in 

* Printed, 1546. Se§ Bas^S “ Life of Wiclif,” p. 382, 

/ 

/ 


LOLLARDS, 


139 


her arms, kisses him, and wipes away the tears. So our Lord 
suffereth his loved child to be tempted and troubled for a 
time, and withdraweth some of his solace and full protec- 
tion, to see what his child will do ; and when he is about to 
be overcome by temptations, then he defendetli him and 
comforteth him by grace.” * 

As the passage was read tears coursed down the cheeks of 
all present. 

That wdiich weighed upon the hearts of that entire com- 
pany found expression in many of their prayers and remarks. 
It was, as they said, “ the fear that we shall be frightened 
into recantation by the fire.” Many of the brethren had 
proved thus recreant, even several of their leaders, and they 
felt that naught but the grace of God could keep them- 
selves. “ Fear not, brethren,” said Dick, “ that grace is 
promised us if we trust in God, and as it hath kept' us thus 
far it will to tlie end. Why should we so shrink back from 
the burning? There are sufferings worse than that, I trow. 
Ye have heard the lamentations of some who have recanted. 
The good and generous merchant, Mr. Monmouth, hath told 
me his great grief, weeping so he could hardly speak. The 
pious Captain Loots, who hath brought over so many New 
Testaments, hath been inconsolable ever since he bore the 
lighted taper. He saith it hath been burning ever since in 
his conscience. Meseems such a flame is wm’se than that at 
the stake. God wdll enable us to bear the latter, brethren, 
so fear not. The pain will be short, and then the bliss.” 
Dick looked up, and his honest, rugged face seemed to Hal 
the face of an angel. 

Several times during the day, when any of the company 
had ventured out of their hiding-place, they were warned 
by certain signs in the woods that they must return. For 
generations the Lollards had had their signa^ by which 
notice of approaching danger could be given with almost 
telegraphic swiftness from one end of the land to the other. 
These signals had been so successful their enemies at- 

* Sonant’s “ English Bible,” pp. 87, 88, 


140 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


tributed them to magic. It was thus the present inhabit- 
ants of the island communicated with the outside world. 
It was thus they had already apprised the Monrnouths of 
Christopher’s danger. 

Hal rested on one of the straw pallets during the night, 
and was seated beside Dick the next morning at breakfast, 
when a man who had been appointed to act as sentinel ap- 
peared with the word that he had seen an arrow rising high 
in the air above the trees. This was the signal for im- 
mediate departure. All was now hurry and bustle. 

“ Depart the way thou earnest. Master Hal,” said Dick.” 
“We will not try to follow thee. Go not to the Mon- 
mouths for their sake and for thine own. God bless thee.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 




PURSUIT. 

If the gypsy man is weary, 

There’s a horse in the farmer’s stall ; 

If the gypsy child is hungry, 

There’s a hen near the granary wall ; 

If the gypsy lads are thirsty, 

There’s beer enough for them all ; 

And if there’s naught in the gypsy’s hand. 

There are wealthy gorgios in all the land. 

Janet Tuckey. 

Hal had not gone far from the island, his progress being 
necessarily very slow, when a loud shout in the distance im- 
plied that some of the company, if not all, had fallen into 
the hands of their enemies. For a moment he regretted 
that he was not with them to assist in their defence; 
yet what could he do, he thought, a single, unarmed youth ? 
Although his heart prompted him to share the fate of his 
companions, a return to the island, if he should be so 
foolish as to attempt it, was impossible. He could not move 
at all save in a forward direction ; and thus only by lying flat 
on his face, and pulling himself forward with his hands. It 
is doubtful whether some of the brethren could have fol- 
lowed him if they tried. As Hal neared the opening he 
proceeded with more caution, often stopping to listen. At 
length he emerged near the spot which he had left two days 
before. Sitting upon a stone for a moment’s rest, his quick 
ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps, when he 
sprang up and attempted flight. A loud, rough voice com- 
manded him to stop; and, as he did not heed it, an arrow 
struck a tree beside him, and another whizzed close to his 
ear. Glancing back he saw a short, thick-set, determined- 
looking man, followed by two others. The sight of the 

•141 


142 


THE BOY-LOLLARH. 


former alarmed the youth. He recognized him as a servant 
of Wolsey who had long been the terror of the country, 
and busy of late in arresting those who were circulating 
Tyndale’s New Testament. No one had been known 
to escape him if he once got upon his track. He bore 
the appropriate name of Gripe. Hal would rather be pur- 
sued by any other person, and yet his heart did not fail 
him. Though he had not as great strength, he possessed 
superior agility, which gave him the advantage in the wind- 
ing paths of the forest. Nevertheless, he narrowly escaped 
capture, and it was hours before he rid himself of his pur- 
suers. He had reason to be more thankful than before for 
his gypsy education. Coming to the road, he hastened on 
until he reached a cluster of cottages, at one of which he 
stopped to ask for food. A peasant woman, with a kind, 
patient face, bade him sit down, and spreading a clean white 
cloth on the stand before him, placed on it some rye bread 
and a glass of water. As Hal partook of this simple meal 
— which was all she had to give him — lie noticed that pieces 
of cloth resembling fagots were fastened to her dress before 
and behind. Glancing from these to her face, so like the 
faces he had seen of late, he ventured to give a brief ac- 
count of his escape from the island. She listened with the 
deepest interest, sadly assenting when he expressed his fears 
that some or all of the company had been captured. As he 
arose to go, she urged him to stay. 

“Nay, my good woman,” said Hal, “I must haste. Had 
I known the cruel priests had made thee wear this badge of 
ignominy I would not have solicited thy hospitality. Much 
I fear the brutes who chased me will track me here.” 

“An they do, master,” said the woman, resolutely, “they 
will get naught from me. ’Twas because I would not 
accuse others of reading the blessed Scripture, and would 
not confess as the priests desired, I was condemned to wear 
these fagots as long as I live.” * 

“ Doth no one molest thee now?” asked Hal. 

♦ Fox, vol. ii, p. 30. “ History of Popery,” p. 367. 


UR SUIT. 


143 


“ No one, master,” replied the woman. “ My husband and 
I be of Lincolnshire. Thou hast heard of the sufferings of 
tlie good people there; and ‘how Bishop Longland made 
them accuse those who were their own flesh by threats of 
the fire. But he could not make me do it, nor my husband, 
whom he would have burned for refusing, I trow, had he 
not escaped. We be now tenants of Sir George Templeton, 
who hath shown us great kindness.” 

As Hal left she blessed him. Surprised at being on the 
estate of Sir George Templeton, he wondered if the gypsies 
were still in the vicinity. Taking a road that led away 
from London, the country began to wear a familiar aspect, 
and soon as he ascended an eminence he caught a sight of 
the place of the gypsy encampment, now deserted, in the 
valley. With a sense of loneliness and disappointment, — 
although he had decided that it would be ungenerous and 
imprudent to seek safety amongst this people, — he turned 
aside from the road into a rude way that led down to the 
spot. It invited him by its quietness and seclusion to take 
the rest his weary limbs still required. Besides, would his 
pursuers be likely to search for him here, now that the 
gypsies h^d left ? The. rubbish incident to an apparently 
hurried breaking up of the encampment was not inviting; 
and yet it suggested to him friends whose faithful affection 
was proof .against desertion, and whose kindly warning that 
the love of Sir Thomas More and Margaret, whom he pre- 
ferred to them, would change to hatred had proved true. 
He had hardly thrown himself on the ground when light 
steps approaching caused him to spring to his feet. Imme- 
diately Zaida stood before him. The youth gazed in wonder, 
as though beholding a beautiful vision. Her hair of glossy 
black fell down her back in braids; long drops of gold 
were pendant from her ears ; there was a necklace of what 
seemed to be large pearls around her neck ; and those 
Spanish eyes of hers fascinated him with their varying 
expression of amazement, of tenderness, of pity, of fear. 
She was the first to spealc : — 


144 


THE BOY-LOLLARH 


“O Hal, fly! fly! Nay, thou art faint. Wait but a 
moment.” 

Before he had time to reply, she had left him ; but re- 
turned very shortly with a goblet of cordial. As soon as he 
had drank it, she hurriedly informed him that her father had 
sent the company away with her mother; and he and herself 
had mounted a horse behind one of the carts containing 
some of their people as well as provisions; but missing 
something he had sent her back for it. “ He just bade me,” 
said she, ‘‘ not tarry with thee a moment. The officers of 
Sir Thomas More have been here several times to-day, and 
a few moments sithence those of Wolsey. They all threat- 
ened to arrest father for having secreted thee somewheie.” 

The voice of Hearne was now heard calling her. 

“If I am seen with thee,” she continued, “we and may- 
hap the whole company will be cast into prison.” 

Hal besought her to leave him, — her father still calling 
her, and cursing her delay, — and assured her that he should 
be able to escape. 

“I fear nay,” said she, anxiously ; “ for I bethink me, from 
somewhat the officers of Wolsey said, they must have tracked 
thee thither from a place of concealment. O Hal, fly ! ” 

She started to leave him, — for the calls and curses grew 
louder, — when, a sudden thought striking her, she turned 
around, and said hurriedly, “ If thou dost fall into their 
hands, place thyself under the protection of Sir George 
Templeton.” 

The gypsy maiden had gone. Hal determined to press on 
as rapidly as possible through fields and woods, until he 
should get so far from his pursuers that he could safely 
venture into the road again. He had entered a little grove 
on the edge of the encampment, when a rough hand grasped 
his shoulder from behind, and a loud voice shouted, “ Ha, 
ha ! we have caught thee at last.” His heart sank within 
him when he recognized Gripe. With him were tw’O fellows 
who instantly clapped handcuffs upon his wrists. Before he 
could make the least attempt to defend himself or fly he was 


PURSUIT. 


145 


completely in their power. From their jeering remarks he 
supposed that they had been watching him while he was 
talking with Zaida, and were about rushing upon him when 
he came to the very place where they lay concealed. 

Gripe now ordered him to follow them. The youth 
obeyed. Soon all came to three- horses tied. Two of the 
men mounted ; and the leader, causing Hal to mount, tied 
him securely to the animal. He himself was about to take 
his place behind him on the saddle, which was sufficient to 
hold two, when Hal, recovering his self-possession, thought 
of Zaida’s last words, and claimed the protection of Sir 
George Temjdeton. 

“Nay, my young master,” said the leader with a sneer, 
“thy cunning will not serve thee now. Thou hast kept us 
long enow racing after thee. Thou wilt not escape us after 
we have got thee, I warrant.” 

Hal, however, persisted in claiming the protection of the 
nobleman. The latter — as the reader should here be in- 
formed — had inherited a large estate, and possessed in 
himself all the accomplishments that were then considered 
befitting a man of his rank. Being a lover of pleasure, 
handsome, and of careless, easy disposition, he had ingratiated 
himself into the favor of both king and cardinal. The men 
who had seized Hal were a part of a band of the cardinal’s 
servants, commissioned by him to arrest some Lutherans, 
who, as Father Forest informed him, were secreted on the 
island. They had not entirely lost scent of their victim from 
the time they first saw him and gave him chase. But were 
they sure he belonged to the company they were sent to 
arrest? He had not been seen with the others; and, though 
some circumstances were suspicious, he had appeared in a 
quarter which, as they supposed, had no access to the island. 
Hal noticing their hesitancy, waxed bolder, and demanded 
why they had arrested him. 

“ Sith thou be a heretic and traitor,” said the determined- 
looking leader, “ and hath been with heretics and traitors.” 

“ I fling back the charge,” cried the youth, spiritedly, “ I 


146 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


am neither, and I have been with neither. Unfasten these 
handcuffs and sunder these cords, or ye shall rue it ; and 
bring me to Sir George Templeton afore ye take me from 
his grounds.” * 

“ What’s all this coil about?” inquired a voice, and the 
young nobleman himself came upon the scene. “ Ah ! ” he 
exclaimed, looking at Hal, “ Master Roj^er’s page ; and, by 
my soul, manacled and bound ! Is he such a monster, and 
are ye three big men so afraid of this stripling?” 

“ Pardon, Sir George Templeton,” said the leader, “ the 
youth be one of those vile heretics called Lutherans, and 
hath just been in a nest of them on the island ; and we be 
doing our duty to arrest him.” 

“Tut, tut,” rejoined Sir George, “the youth doth not 
resemble those desperate characters. Ye are mistaken, I 
trow.” 

The leader then gave an account of where they had first 
seen him, of their chase after him, and of the way in which 
they finally secured him. 

The nobleman laughed incredulously. “Ye saw him,” he 
said, “in a place he could not have reached, as ye know, in 
his flight from the island. Besides, are ye willing to swear 
that this is the very youth ye saw in the woods, for ye say 
it was early morn and dark ? ” 

The two men, on being closely questioned, were not wil- 
ling to swear ; but Gripe declared with a solemn oath that 
he knew it was the same, since the youth was so near him at 
the time. 

“ And yet couldn’t catch him,” said the nobleman, in a 
contemptuous tone. “ Methinks it’s passing strange that thou 
couldst have been so near him in the dark as to recognize 
him, and yet could not catch him, and eke he a mere 
stripling.” 

“ The devil gave wings to his feet,” muttered Gripe. “ I 
misdoubt e’en thou couldst catch him an his manacles were 
off.” 

“ Stop thy impudence, scoundrel ! ” exclaimed Sir George. 


PUnStTIT. 


147 


As Gripe began to make humble apologies, the nobleman 
spoke ])leasantly to him ; and, at length, beckoning him, they 
held a colloquy in a low tone at a little distance from the 
rest, when the leader turned and scrutinized Hal’s face. 
The youth doubted not from the peculiar expression on the 
countenances of both that Sir George had spoken of his re- 
semblance to the cardinal, and hinted at a probable rela- 
tionship. He was about to give some imprudent expression 
to his feelings, when the two returned, and the leader 
commenced severing the cords, and his men by his command 
removing the handcuffs. 

“ This lad, my good men,” said Sir George, “ is delivered 
up into my hands on the condition that to-morrow I take 
him to the cardinal.” 

The two men and leader, having released their prisoner, 
bowed low and departed. 

“ It is unfortunate, Hal,” said the nobleman, as soon as 
they were out of hearing, “ that the obstinate rascal could 
not be frightened out of recognizing thee. An it had not 
been for thy resemblance to Wolsey those handcuffs would 
still be upon thy wrists.” 

Hal conjectured that Sir George had heard of his supposed 
relationship to the cardinal at the house of Sir Thomas 
More, and perhaps also at Mr. Monmouth’s, since he was an 
occasional visitor at the latter, and, as the youth had re- 
cently learned, was a nephew of the husband of Mrs. Mon- 
mouth’s beautiful sister. Lady William Templeton, who 
has been mentioned in this tale. A crimson blush of shame 
suffused the cheeks of Hal. 

The nobleman observing it continued : — 

“Thou art the strangest lad, Hal. There thou wast in 
the family of Sir Thomas More, which is the most beautiful 
in the land, loved by all, more by Sir Thomas, I trow, tlian 
any not his children ; and yet for a mere notion casting all 
thy bright prospects behind thy back, defying him, and fling- 
ing tliyself away from his protection into the company of 
these outcasts. I wish I had seen thee, in the face and eyes 


148 


THE BOY-LOLLABE. 


of forty men, all told, leap out at that window, and run 
away; — ha, ha, ha! Master Roper’s description of it was 
brought to my mind by what that rascal said about the fruit- 
less chase they gave thee. Thou art the first, I trow, that 
Gripe hath not been able to catch. Well, thou art high- 
mettled, and I like thee.” 

Hal learned that William Roper had privately requested 
the nobleman to take him from the gypsies if he should join 
them, and place him under the protection of Wolsey. 

“ Then Master Roper and Mistress Margaret do not wish 
to see me beaten?” asked the youth. “ They do not,” said 
the nobleman, “and rejoiced at thy escape, as doubtless did 
Sir Thomas in his heart. Nathless, I counsel thee not to fall 
into his hands.” 

Ilal expressed his gratitude. 

“ Nay,” was the reply, “ let thy thanks wait awhile. May- 
hap I have not helped thee. Thou art fiery, and one word 
wounding the vanity of the cardinal would bring on thee his 
fiercest wrath. Marry, it was by the merest chance I knew 
of thy being here. Sir Thomas More’s servants and the car- 
dinal’s, searching after thee among the gypsies on my estate, 
frightened them out of their wits ; and they expected to be 
hung either for witchcraft or heresy, or both. I opined they 
had betaken themselves off, and faith I was not sorry, when, 
who should come rushing into my presence in my house but 
that gypsy beauty, weeping and agitated ; and, casting her- 
self on her knees, she besought me to come to thy rescue, 
for she somehow had learned of thy capture. I promised 
of course, knowing that it was the wish also of my friend 
Roper ; but, by my troth, they are almost the first words she 
hath deigned to give me. To all my compliments here- 
tofore she had turned scornfully away with a flash of that 
dark eye of hers ; and once, as I approached to salute her, 
by my faith, her hand grasped a stiletto that was in her 
bosom, and as a taste of this was not to my liking I did not 
venture. I hinted at a trifling reward on this occasion ; but, 
’pon my word, the jade was gone incontinent. Looking out 


PURSUIT. 


149 


at the window I saw her splendid-looking father sitting on 
as splendid-looking a horse ; and in a trice she mounted be- 
hind him and was gone. How didst thou get a place in the 
favor of that haughty witch ? But faith the lad is coloring 
up again.” 

Hal, though not pleased with the somewhat free remarks 
of the nobleman, was gratified as well as amused that Zaida 
had made him keep his distance, and not permitted him to 
take even allowable liberties. Hal asked if the gypsies had 
made themselves useful. 

“ Ay, in a general way, Hal,” was the reply, “ in mend- 
ing divers pots and kettles, and shoeing my horses, and tell- 
ing the fortunes of my sisters, and dancing and singing love- 
songs, and playing on instruments. I tell thee the gypsy 
girl is a most bewitching dancer and singer, and her father 
is a cunning player on the harp. The rascals never stole 
from me, but were true to the covenant we had made. But 
my neighbors, who had entered into no agreement with 
them, lost more of their hens and their cattle and their hogs 
than if they had done as I did. Besides, some robberies 
committed not far away were laid to their charge. Their 
departure was only hastened by thy flight from Sir Thomas 
More’s ; it must have taken place ere long.” 

The above conversation was going on as the good-natured 
young nobleman led Hal to his residence. There were in 
his family three ladies, his mother and two sisters, tall, 
reserved, severe-looking, who received Hal with chilling 
coldness, or rather haughty displeasure. They had heard of 
the youth’s detection and flight; and they highly disap- 
proved of Sir George’s interference in his behalf, even 
at the request of Master Roper. A greater contrast there 
could not be than that existing between them and their 
son and brother. While their religion was a stanch and 
rigid Catholicism, a punctilious formalism, a sort of asceti- 
cism, after the fashion of Queen Catherine, of whom they 
were especially fond, and whose cause they passionately ad- 
vocated, the religion of Sir George consisted in an easy 


150 


THE BOY-LOLLABD, 


observance of certain sacred ceremonies, an outward loyalty 
to the church, though thinking and doing about as he 
pleased, — it being patterned after that of the cardinal, and 
of the king, whose side he carelessly took in the divorce. 
The austerity and prudery of the ladies were antagonistic to 
the easy virtue of the gentleman ; and so was their harsh and 
cruel disposition to liis kindly and generous one. Repelled 
from their society, he had, since his father’s death, spent 
much of his time at court, offering with others his incense 
of flattery to Henry and the beautiful Anne Boleyn, with 
whom the king was then deeply in love. After the coming 
of the gypsies the ladies affected a virtuous horror of Zaida, 
perhaps because of the fascination she exerted over Sir 
George; but the sisters lost some of their stilted dignity 
when he rallied them on what he somehow learned, — that 
the gypsy girl had on her knees told each of them privately 
her fortune, giving a long tale of lover and husband to 
eager ears ; and they changed the subject, not to revert to it 
again. 

Through the day Hal got no notice from the ladies save 
sharp looks, revealing to him what his fate would be if left 
to their disposal. During the night, being wakeful, he 
called to mind all that Christopher and Edith had told him 
of their aunt, and doubted not that the nieces of this lady’s 
husband resembled him. At length, as he fell asleep, he 
dreamed that in fleeing from Gripe he found Lady William 
Templeton, and was concealed in her house ; that the sisters 
of Sir George, coming to the knowledge of it, informed 
her husband, who became enraged with his wife and sent 
him to prison ; that a mysterious connection between Hal 
and Lady William was about to be revealed, when he 
awoke. 

The next day Sir George furnished Hal with a new suit 
of clothes, saying he was but following William Roper’s 
directions, and started for London, the youth riding behind 
him on the same saddle, and a mounted servant following. 
He had taken a liking to Hal, and the latter, at his request. 


PURSUIT. 


151 


enlivened the way with several Spanish songs. Crossing 
London Bridge, they were going by St. Paul’s cathedral, 
when they noticed that many people were gathered at 
Paul’s Cross. A large, tall man, in priestly robes, whom 
Hal recognized as the dean of St. Paul’s, was holding forth 
in the pulpit with a voice so loud and clear they could dis- 
tinctly hear his words. Sir George stopped his horse and 
they listened. The dean had a candle burning beside him, 
and was pronouncing the names of certain persons, who, as 
he said, had been circulating the poisonous writings of 
Wickliffe and Tyndale, especially their pestilent trans- 
lations of Scripture. Amongst them were the names of 
Dick Braynton, and others who were with Hal on the 
island. When he had finished the list he proceeded to 
pronounce against these men the curse of the church, and a 
shudder ran through the crowd as he shouted the fearful 
words : — 

“Let them be accursed eating and drinking, walking and 
sitting, speaking and holding their peace, waking and sleej)- 
ing, rowing and riding, laughing and weeping, in house and 
field, on water and on land, in all places. Cursed be their 
head and their thoughts, their eyes and their ears, their 
tongues and their lips, their teeth and their throat, their 
shoulders and their breasts, their feet and their legs, their 
thighs and their inwards. Let them remain accursed from 
the bottom of the foot to the crown of the head unless they 
bethink themselves and come to satisfaction. And just as 
the candle is deprived of its present light, so let them be 
deprived of their souls in hell.” * 

The dean, holding up the candle in his hand, blew out the 
light. 

Sir George Templeton’s careless face looked sober for a 
moment, as he started his horse. “I did not hear thy 
name, Hal,” he said. “An thou wouldst not be cursed 
thus, keep out of bad company. How’s this?” noticing 
the quiet, determined expression on the youth’s face; “I 

* Funcliard’s “ History of Congregationalism,” vol. i., pp. 326, 327, 


152 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


will not promise to come to tliy rescue a second time. 
Natliless, I like thee, sith thou art a lad of mettle.” 

Soon arriving at York place, where was a crowd of gayly- 
dressed people. Sir George dismounted with Hal, and giving 
his horse to his servant, the two entered. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


TKOTECTION. 

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, 

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading, 

Lofty and sour to them that loved him not, 

But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer. 

Shakspeare. 

P ASSING through the entrance-hall the two entered a 
large room, Avhere many persons had gathered and 
were waiting to be admitted into the presence of the cardi- 
nal. Sir George, after giving and receiving courteous salu- 
tations, put a note for Cromwell, Wolsey’s secretary, into 
the hand of a servant, who immediately disappeared with 
it. In a few moments the servant returned with a summons 
from his master. Without api^earing to notice the disap- 
pointment of a young nobleman with whom he had just 
commenced a gay conversation, or the anger of others of 
superior rank to himself. Sir George bowed his leave to 
them with an easy grace, and, accompanied by Hal, followed 
the servant through a number of rooms until they came to 
the private ones of the cardinal. Into one of these admission 
was given by an usher, who stood before an open door with 
his rod. They were now in a large apartment, the floor of 
which was covered with a richer carpet, and the walls with 
a more beautiful tapestry, than Hal had yet seen. Soon a 
little bell was struck in another apartment adjoining, as 
the signal for them to enter. This was much smaller, but 
even more splendidly furnished. The chief attraction, how- 
ever, was directly before them, at the opposite side. On a 
chair of state, under a canopy, wearing a red hat, robe, and 
stockings, a tippet of sables, and shoes decorated with gems 

153 


154 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


and gold, sat Wolsey, displaying a magnificence unusual 
for a subject, even in that showy age, and seeming to be, 
as was said, “seven times greater than the pope.” Near 
him stood Thomas Cromwell, a calm, astute-looking man, 
who gave Sir George a smile of recognition. The nobleman, 
bidding Hal remain where he was, advanced and humbly 
knelt; for the cardinal was approached with all the marks 
of respect paid to royalty. He rose at Wolsey’s request, 
and gave a brief account of Hal’s flight and capture. He 
then dropped a remark the youth could not hear, which 
interested Wolsey, and soon the three were engaged in an 
earnest conversation. Hal knew, from the words that here 
and there reached his ears, and from the glances occasion- 
ally cast at him, that he was the subject. A familiarity 
soon appeared between the ecclesiastic and the nobleman 
and Cromwell, singularly contrasting with the haughty 
assumption on the one side, and the deference and homage 
on the other at first manifested. 

At length Sir George stepped backward, and led Hal to 
Wolsey. The youth, overwhelmed with grief and mortifi- 
cation, threw himself at his feet. But his feelings under- 
went some change when a pleasant voice bade him rise. 
Obeying, he looked into two kindly eyes, which also were 
keen and searching. Wolsey was a good reader of char- 
acter. 

“Thou hast done wrong, my lad,” said the cardinal, after 
a moment’s pause, “ in not submitting to Sir Thomas More’s 
chastisement ; yet meseems thou carriest thine honesty in 
thy face, and meanest well. Thy fault, then, lieth in read- 
ing the heretical translations of Wickliffe and Tyndale.” 
His expansive brow gathered into a frown as he uttered the 
last name. “Hast helped to circulate them, as so many 
have done of late, to the injury of the realm? Ha! Make 
a clean breast of it, my lad.” The eyes and tone began to 
assume a harsher expression. 

“May it please your grace,” replied Hal, “I have not 
helped at all to circulate them. I possessed a copy of 


PROTECTION. 


155 


Wickliffe’s translation of St. John, which I supposed was 
my mother’s. For tliat reason, your grace, and sith I 
thought it taught me good and not evil, 1 read it. And eke 
I have read Master Tyndale’s translation of the new Testa- 
ment,” — the youth, noticing the frown again appearing on 
Wolsey’s brow, paused, but in a moment went on, — “as I 
have been taught to do that of the learned Erasmus by my 
teacher. Mistress Margaret Roller.” 

“Well said, my lad,” rejoined Wolsey, gently, admiring 
his frankness and modest dignity. “ Thou didst right not 
to circulate these heretical translations, though thou didst 
wrong to keep and read them without permission. Hast 
ever made disturbance in Sir Thomas More’s family by ridi- 
culing the teachings of holy church, by absenting thyself 
from religious service in the chapel, or by sitting there 
mum, and not giving the responses ? Ha! Speak.” 

Hal could honestly reply in the negative. Wolsey looked 
surprised ; for William Roper when he apj^eared before him 
confessed that he had offended in these respects. 

“Thou sayest,” continued Wolsey, “Mistress Margaret 
Roper — that young lady renowned for her learning — hath 
been thy teacher. Thou shouldst have made some progress 
in Latin.” He then addressed him in that language, the 
youth replying with promptness and accuracy. He recited 
a few sentences from Plato, which Hal readily translated. 
He also asked some questions in astronomy and natural his- 
tory, which the youth found no difficulty in answering. 
The cardinal looked pleased, and turning to Cromwell, 
said, — 

“ ’Pon my soul, he is well enow, save in the matter of the 
translations. It is my will that he be received into my 
household, and placed under the care of Master Horton, 
whose present charge methiiiks is not so onerous but he can 
take the lad.” 

Cromwell bowed with great deference. “ It shall be as 
your grace desireth. Master Horton is cunning in the lan- 
guages, and iu many sciences, and is a sad and religious 


156 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


man withal; he can questionless in all needful matters 
instruct a lad so singularly bright and intelligent.” 

“Aha!” exclaimed Wolsey, “I had forgotten that he is a 
singer. Let us have a specimen of thy skill.” 

Hal sung a little Spanish song about an old warrior who, 
after conquering the enemies of his king and country, 
had come home covered with honorable wounds, only to 
be rejected by the ungrateful monarch and die of a 
broken heart. The tale was a pathetic one, and adapted 
to Hal’s voice, and when he had finished Wolsey was in 
tears. 

“ Enow,” he exclaimed, “ he shall be one of the singing- 
men of my chapel. Sir George Templeton,” he continued, 
“we will excuse thy farther waiting on us; and Master 
Cromwell will tarry in the outer room a while, as I desire 
to be alone with the lad a few moments.” 

“ May it please your grace to listen to a suit of mine ? ” 
asked Sir George. 

“ Not now,” replied Wolsey, somewhat impatiently. “ At 
anotlier t’me,” he continued with a smile, noticing the look 
of disappointment on the face of the nobleman. “Nathless, 
I will be good lord unto thee.” 

When the two had left, Wolsey fixed upon the youth a 
more scrutinizing gaze than he had yet done, and began to 
question him particularly in regard to the woman who had 
had the care of him amongst the gyjDsies. At this moment 
the usher announced that the Earl of Suffolk requested an 
immediate conference. 

“ Bid him wait my pleasure,” said Wolsey, haughtily. 

“ May it please your grace,” said the usher, humbly, “ tlie 
earl hath come with a message from the king.” 

“Tlien bid him enter,” replied Wolsey, looking displeased 
and troubled. 

As Hal, according to request, withdrew, the earl passed 
him in the outer room. He was tlie famous Charles Bran- 
don, one of the handsomest men of the age, a favorite of 
Henry, and his brother-in-law. 


PROTECTION. 


157 


Our hero found a perfect contrast between the Chelsea 
mansion and York Place. While the household of the for- 
mer was of moderate size for those times, that of the latter 
was unusually large, consisting of more than five hundred 
persons, and amongst them were about ten noblemen, fifteen 
knights, and forty esquires. While the utmost simplicity 
marked the one, everything connected with the other was on 
the grandest scale, — its stables, and kitchens, and dining-hall, 
and parlors, and all their appointments, with hundreds of 
servants, each having a special work to do. While the |)lii- 
losopher was utterly without show or pretence, the ecclesi- 
astic surrounded himself with royal pomp. Though Henry 
threw his arm affectionately around the neck of Sir Thomas 
More, Wolsey washed in the same dish with the king, and, 
to the Venetian ambassador, seemed to claim equal author- 
ity with his master. Though royalty hung enraptured on 
the eloquent lips of the renowned sage, it stooped to secure 
the favor of the haughty churchman. Though in the jdain 
chapel at the end of the garden the service was performed 
by the head, with other members of the household, in the 
splendid place of worship of the cardinal’s palace there 
officiated a dean, a sub-dean, and other officers, twelve sing- 
ing-priests, twelve ' singing-children, and sixteen singing- 
men. 

It must be acknowledged that the dislike which Hal had 
felt for Wolsey decreased in this change of circumstances. 
Beneath all this display and arrogant pretension there was 
a real greatness that awed him, now that he stood face to 
face with the statesman who, as he had previously learned, 
had taken a world of business off the hands of Henry, and 
guided England safely through the ])lots and counterplots 
of unscrupulous popes and emperors and kings. Under the 
insolent bearing which this ecclesiastic took pleasure in 
assuming toward the nobles there was a generous disposi- 
tion ; for when they a])plied to him for civil or ecclesiastical 
preferment they were often successful, and when they asked 
him for money they rarely went empty away. A few days 


158 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


lifter Hal’s arrival with Sir George Templeton he saw the 
latter in the palace, and knew from the look of gratification 
on his face that he had gained his suit. Thoroughly selfish 
and rapacious as was this prelate, Hal had heard Sir Thomas 
More say that he was strictly just and impartial in his civil' 
decisions. He favored the poor, and made the lawyers 
plead gratis for paupers. Never had the country been bet- 
ter governed than under his administration. Says Fuller 
afterward, “ I hear no widow’s sighs, nor see orphans’ tears 
in our chronicles caused by him. Sure in such cases 
wherein his private ends made him not a i^arty he was an 
excellent justicer, as being too proud to be bribed and too 
strong to be overborne.” A great lover of lawless pleasure as 
Wolsey showed himself to be, the youth was impressed by 
his enthusiasm for learning, and — inconsistent though he was 
— by his zeal for a reformation of morals in the church, and his 
apparent devoutness in the chapel, from which he always 
retired for a private service. Distant and haughty as the 
cardinal appeared abroad, on which account all classes cordi- 
ally hated him, he was pleasant and affable with his servants, 
and they loved him. Hal could not withhold from him his 
affection. 

Master Horton, under whose instruction our hero was now 
placed, proved very unlike his former teacher, Margaret 
Roper. Master Horton was a keen, sharp student, apparently 
without a jot of i^oetry, or music, or fun in him. He ap- 
peared strangely out of place in Wolsey’s palace, in whose 
halls the revels often resounded through the night into the 
morning. He was patient, persevering, indefatigable in the 
pursuit of knowledge, and as exacting of his pupils as of 
himself. The youth soon discovered that his labors had 
decidedly increased ; but, being fond of study, he did not 
grieve over his lot, save he w'ould occasionally like a taste of 
Chaucer. After awhile he began to suspect from some 
words of his instructor that the latter was a secret favorer 
of the Reformation ; though he dared not question him, since 
Master Horton was very distant and reserved, H^ began 


PROTECTION. 


159 


to surmise also from whisperings in the palace that Crom- 
well was a secret favorer of it also; and that Wolsey him- 
self might possibly have been if he had not dreamed of 
securing the papal tiara, and been made the butt of bitter 
ridicule by the prominent advocates of the Reformation. 
Since a little work in rhyme offensively satirizing him had 
been printed, entitled, — 

“ Rede me and be nott wrothe, 

For I saye no thinge but trothe,” 

he had opposed this cause with all the rage of wounded 
vanity. As one of the authors, William Roye, was sup- 
posed to have assisted Mr. Tyndale in the translation of the 
New Testament, Wolsey took it for granted that Tyndale 
had been associated with Roye in this poem, when the truth 
was the former had nothing to do with it, and it did not 
meet his approval. The sensitive cardinal regarded Tyn- 
dale, therefore, as a personal enemy. And thus he looked 
upon all who read his New Testament. So he took his 
revenge by commissioning Gripe to arrest all who were en- 
gaged in reading and circulating the prohibited translation. 

As may he supposed, it was not long after Hal took up 
his abode at York Place that he called upon the Monmouths. 
Mr. and Mrs. Monmouth — Christopher and Edith were in 
Holland — expressed surprise and pleasure at seeing him 
and hearing that Wolsey had taken him under his pro- 
tection. 

“ The cardinal may do as much for thee,” said Mr. Mon- 
mouth, with a look of relief, “ as for his son, Thomas Winter, 
and for his daughter, whom he hath made Countess of Salis- 
bury ; though I trust it will not be by giving thee an epis- 
copal preferment.” 

Hal’s cheeks reddened and his eyes filled with tears. 

“Pardon me, my son,” said the kind-hearted merchant, 
surprised and pained at the effect of his words, “ I meant no 
ill. Such sensitiveness in this corrupt age is not common.” 

“ Thou dost not bear the slightest resemblance,” said Mrs. 


160 


TUE BOY-LOLLAlil). 


Monmouth, soothingly, “ either in body or mind to that 
proud and wicked man.” 

“Nathless, my son,” said Mr. Monmouth, “thou art grate- 
ful for what he hath done for thee?” 

Hal could only falter out that he was deeply grateful. 

As he left he took with him a copy of Tyndale’s New 
Testament, which Mr. Monmouth had given him. He kept 
it and his manuscript in his room, and read them at what- 
ever favorable moments he could get. 

The commission was now sitting upon the divorce between 
Henry VIII. and Catherine. Hal could not help noticing 
as the weeks passed by, and still nothing was done, an in- 
creasing nervous excitement on the part of Wolsey ; an 
almost constant look of anxiety on the face of Cromwell ; 
the occasional white lips and frightened whisj^erings of the 
servants; such ominous mutterings amongst the nobility who 
belonged to the household, or were casually present in the 
palace, as “ the hand that made him can unmake him.” Mr. 
Monmouth told Hal that there were indications of Wolsey’s 
approaching downfall. Yet no change appeared in his royal 
style of living, in the size of his household, in the gorgeous 
cavalcade of which he was the centre moving daily through 
the streets of London. Sometimes the great man, thoroughly 
wearied and disheartened, would send for Hal to come into 
his private apartment and sing to him. Cromwell was 
usually present. The youth would sing a Spanish song, or 
a pretty English ballad ; and the listener would be cheered 
and say : — 

“ Thou hast the sweetest voice of all my singing-men, Hal, 
albeit some of them know more of the science of music.” 

At length the anticipated blow came. The commission 
having failed to divorce Henry from his queen, the royal 
wrath fell upon Wolsey. His whole vast household was in 
confusion. At the command of the king he delivered up 
the great seal to the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, and was 
quickly stripped of all his honors but the archbishopric. 
Forsaken by nearly his whole household save his servants, 


PROTECTION, 


161 


who were either in tears or giving way to loud lamentations, 
he acted like a distracted man. At length, calling Hal to 
him, he said : — 

“ Thou hast been a good lad, and I meant to reward thee 
richly, but the king hath deprived me of all I have. God 
knows with what alacrity I have served him day and night. 
And to show my love for his highness I will send thee to 
him for his chapel. I know his highness will be delighted 
with thy singing. It grieveth me that I shall never hear 
thy sweet voice again.” Hal begged that he might remain 
with him. But he continued, “ the king will love thee while 
thou doest his will and pleasure. Serve him and serve thy 
God, who will not forsake thee albeit his highness cast thee 
off.” Here the unhappy man broke down. “Nay, nay,” he 
still continued, as Hal persisted in his entreaties to remain, 
“ it may not be. There is one thing of which my enemies 
cannot deprive me — the love of my servants, and of those 
who are dear to me.” Wolsey was agitated and embar- 
rassed. “Nay, nay,” said he in a decided tone, as Hal now 
impulsively expressed his determination to stay, “ it is for 
thy good. Thou must go with Master Horton, who hath 
already received his orders to depart. I command thee. 
He will take thee to the king. Receive my blessing.” 
Then taking a jeweled ring from his finger he gave it to 
Hal and bade him depart. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, 

And Gospel-light first dawned from Boleyn’s eyes. 

Gray. 

A S Master Horton and Hal knelt before Henry VIII., 
liis highness expressed his pleasure at receiving such 
a present from Wolsey. Having heard of Hal as possessing 
the sweetest voice of all who composed Wolsey’s chapel- 
choir, he rejoiced to add him to his own list of choristers, 
whom Guistinian, the Venetian ambassador, pronounced 
divine rather than human, and not chanting but singing 
like angels. He welcomed Master Horton to his household, 
thinking that the sons of his favorites might be aided in 
their studies by a teacher of such high scholarship and 
rigid discipline. When the king curiously questioned him 
concerning Hal, Master Horton informed him that the woman 
supposed to be his mother had been for a brief period a 
petted servant of Wolsey. The king was standing under 
a canopy of cloth of gold, leaning against his throne, on 
which lay the sword of state. He was dressed as on Can- 
dlemas-day, except that over his doublet was a mantle of 
violet-colored velvet, lined with satin, and having a very 
long train, and the precious stones glittered upon his per- 
son in greater abundance. Hear him stood several of the 
nobility, only less splendidly attired, and bishops in their 
rotchets. The king bade them rise, saying : — 

“I will find enow for thee to do. Master Horton, with the 
idle sons of my courtiers. Thou hast grown wondrously, 
my lad, since I saw thee, and I am glad to know thou art a 
scholar, as Sir Thomas More told me not long sithence. 
Ho, ho ! ” turning to the Earl of Suffolk, “ he doth not out- 


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ENCO UEA GEMENT. 1 03 

grow the look of the cardinal. By niy soul,” noticing Hal’s 
abashed appearance, “ he’s modest.” 

“A grace, may it please your majesty, he could not have 
inherited from the cardinal,” said the favorite. 

The remark brought a smile on the king’s face, which 
was chased away speedily by a frown. 

If Hal had found York Place gay, he was surrounded by 
noisier merriment at Greenwich Palace. The king with 
his courtiers and his fool was everywhere. Lady Anne 
Boleyn was often by his side. He was out-of-doors, shooting 
with bows and arrows, casting the bar, wrestling, tilting, 
hunting. He was in-doors, gambling, playing on musical 
instruments, singing ballads, the words and tune sometimes 
composed by himself. One verse of “The King’s Ballad,” 
as it was called, said to have been composed by him, was 
the following, and whether his highness wrote it or not, he 
certainly lived it : — 

“ For my pastance 
Hunte, syng, and daunce, 

My hert is sett : 

All godely sport 
To my comfort, 

Who shall we lett ?” 

It should be added he was a renowned dancer. No more 
beautiful couple ever tripped it lightly of an evening, 
through brilliantly-lighted and gorgeously-furnished halls, 
than he and Lady Anne. 

But there was one in that palace to whose load of sorrow, 
already crushing, each sound of merriment reaching her 
ears added its weight. It was the poor discarded queen. 
Early one morning Hal met her, accompanied by a few of 
her ladies, going to her cliambers. She with them had been 
spending a part of the night on her knees on the cold 
ground in the Franciscan monastery close by. She passed 
on slowly and painfully, for her domestic trials had aged 
her prematurely. Few noticed her save with curious 


164 


THE BOY-LOLLAIW. 


glances; and yet she bore herself proudly as in former 
days, when every knee had bent humbly in her presence, 
and every heart had beat quick at her smile of recognition. 
Till she died no power save the pope’s — and that she 
knew was on her side — could compel her to say she was 
other than Henry’s lawful wife. 

Hal’s powers as a singer developed more and more after 
he was connected with the royal chapel. All listened to 
him with wonder and delight. One Sunday the king was 
especially pleased with the rendering of his part in an an- 
them he had himself composed for four voices, entitled, 
“ O Lord, the Maker of all things.” Hal then won his way 
to royal favor, to the envy of his three associate performers. 

The next day the king sent for him to come into his sanc- 
tum, — a place which none were allowed to enter but favor- 
ites, and they only when invited. The wondering youth 
obeyed, and found Henry, whose gorgeous toilet was usually 
made with care, in decided dishabille. He was leaning over 
a manuscript on his hands, the fingers of wdiich were play- 
ing with his straight and short auburn hair; his elbows 
rested on the table, his brow was puckered, as though he 
had been engaged in hard and anxious study. 

As soon as Hal had risen from his knees at the kind’s 
bidding, Henry gave a deep sigh, and asked, “ Hast ever 
felt in thy breast the consuming passion of love ? ” 

Hal looked upon the round, full, handsome face of the 
king, and his plump form, — showing that Lady Anne’s 
coyness had not caused him to lose a great amount of 
fiesh, — and felt almost amused; but he dared not smile 
while what he had heard Margaret Roper call his “long 
slits of eyes” were fastened on him. The question was 
rather a hard one for him to answer. Coloring and hesi- 
tating, he replied, “Nay, your gracious highness.” 

“Ho, ho, ho!” roared the king; “why blushest thou 
then? Thou art bashful as a maiden. I opined thou 
wouldst say, ‘ay.’ Ho, ho, ho! An thou hast not felt the 
tender passion in its full strength, questionless thou art sus- 


ENCO URAGEMENT. 


1G5 


ceptible of it. Let me hear thee sing these lines of mine in 
the tune I liave set to them.” Hal glanced at the paper 
which the king had given him for a moment, and then 
sang the following, written in the king’s strong hand, appar- 
ently with a bad pen : — 

“ The eagle’s force subdues eaclie byrd that flyes, 

What metal can resyst the flaminge fyre ? 

Dothe not the sunne dazle the clearest eyes, 

And melte the ice, and make the froste retyre ? 

The hardest stones are peircede through with tools. 

The wysest are, with princes, made but fools.” 

“Well done!” exclaimed the king, who longed to be a 
poet, and wliose verse, as Hal sung it with excellent expres- 
sion, dwelling with prolonged cadence upon the last line, 
sounded better than \vhen he had read it aloud to himself, 
“Well done, my lad! there’s nobody but becomes a fool 
under the witchery of a lady’s eye. Now go at thy swiftest 
speed to Lady Anne at Durham Palace, and sing it to her as 
thou hast to me.” 

Hal had often seen this lady at Greenwich Palace, adored 
of the king, admired of all, and surpassing in his eyes all 
the pictures of female grace and loveliness to be found in 
poetry and romance. It was with some trepidation he 
entered her private parlor, introduced by the servant as one 
bearing a secret message from the king. She was sitting 
beside a table, habited in a simple morning dress of blue 
velvet, without ornaments, and was diligently reading a 
book, some striking passage of which she was marking with 
her finger-nail. As he advanced toward her and knelt, she 
closed the book and laid it on the table. 

“Thou art, I trow, one of his highness’s singing-men,” she 
said. “What word, sir, dost thou bring me from his 
highness?” 

When Hal told her his errand the lady smiled sweetly 
upon him, and requested him to arise and do as the king had 
bidden him. 


166 


THE BOT-LOLLARD. 


Hal acquitted Himself even better than he had done in 
the presence of Henry. She was delighted, and thanked 
him gently as he handed her the manuscript ; and told him 
to bear back to his highness her gratitude and admiration, 
since he was as much superior to all other poets as he was to 
all other kings. 

The homage which Hal felt in his heart toward her as the 
perfection of womanhood received a shock at this fulsome 
tiattery. Well he knew she possessed exquisite taste, and 
was widely read in French and English verse. With a 
humble obeisance he was taking his departure, when she 
asked him to remain and sing a few ballads. After he had 
complied with her request, she sincerely expressed her ad- 
miration of them, and praised his singing. He was again 
leaving, when she bade him take a seat by her side. 

“Don’t be frightened,” she said, fixing her inquiring eyes 
upon him, “ that a strange lady should make thee her book 
for the nonce, sith thy face calleth up some old memories. 
Ah, it is she, that dear friend of mine and guide in child- 
hood. Alas, sweet lady, hers hath been a sad fate ! If her 
beautiful boy had lived, of whom oft I heard her speak 
whilom, methinks he would resemble thee.” 

Lady Anne then made him relate all he could recollect of 
his early history before he lived with the gypsies, and all that 
he had ever told of this singular people to Margaret More 
and his other friends. He was astonished to find himself so 
much at home with her, and talking so familiarly about him- 
self ; but this lady had a wonderful tact in winning the con- 
fidence and affection of almost every one with whom she 
was at all associated. She spoke of Sir Thomas More and 
Wolsey; but, on mentioning the latter name, she fixed on 
the youth’s face a curious gaze. Checking herself, however, 
at his look of mortification, she began to ply him with eager 
questions concerning the court, from which she had been ab- 
sent for some days. As he was able to answer but few of her 
inquiries to her satisfaction, she said with a smile, “ I per- 
ceive that Master Horton hath kept thee closely to thy 


ENCO UR A GEMEJS T. 


167 


books,” and gave him permission to depart. When he rose, 
chancing to cast his eye upon the table, he noticed that the 
book she had been reading was one written by Mr. Tyndale, 
and entitled, “ The Obedience of a Christian Man.” 

Master Horton’s severe training disgusted his aristocratic 
pupils, who longed to mingle without stint in the festivities 
around them. This training not only suited the grave and 
reserved teacher, but was according to the strict directions 
of the king, lover of pleasure though he was. Henry could 
speak English, French, Latin, and Italian ; had the reputa- 
tion of being an able philosopher and divine ; was a patron 
of learned men, and desired to train u]) for that class some 
of the youths of his court. 

While at Greenwich Hal had no opportunity of seeing or 
hearing from his friends, the Monmouths. But when the 
court came to York Place, occupying the very palace that 
Wolsey had left with its magnificent furniture, he could give 
them short visits, which were the more delightful, because 
Edith and Christopher were at home. Lady Anne Boleyn 
now resided at court, and, as Rapin says, “ was more waited 
on than the queen had been for some years ; ” indeed she was 
virtual queen, for the king had evidently determined to di- 
vorce Catherine and marry her ; and a priest of dignified 
bearing, benevolent countenance, and gentle manners, now 
often closeted with his highness, had devised a way by 
which it could be done without the sanction of the pope. 
And this lady was a reader of Mr. Tyndale’s hook, “ The 
Obedience of a Christian Man,” as indeed was no secret to 
the court. The very volume that Hal had seen in her pri- 
vate parlor, some of its passages marked, as he had seen her 
do it with her finger-nail, had fallen into the hands of Wolsey, 
who gave it to Henry, hoping thereby to set him against her. 
But the result showed that Anne had more power with the 
king than Wolsey. Instead of rejecting and punishing her, 
he retired to his sanctum and attentively read the book 
liimself. Then returning it to her, he said, “ This book is for 
me and all kings to read.” This lady was also a reader of 


168 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


Mr. Tyiidale’s New Testament. But probably she dared not 
speak of it to her royal lover. Both books she had pondered 
and perhaps prayed over in the solitude of Hever Castle ; 
for hers was a tenderly religious nature. How she would 
love to lead England’s noble king into a better way than that 
whicli he was treading : she attempted it, but was not suffi- 
ciently sure of the rectitude and stability of her present 
position to do so with firmness and courage, while Henry did 
not respect her sufficiently to follow her as a guide. Mucli 
as she tried to satisfy her conscience that she was doing 
right, strongly as her father and her other near friends had 
advised her to take this course, did she not sometimes wish 
that the peaceful solitude of Hever Castle had never been 
invaded by a royal lover to offer such tempting prizes to her 
vanity and ambition? And yet lier influence in behalf of 
the Reformation was felt by Henry and his court. The in- 
fluence of that mildly-mannered priest, Tliomas Cranmer, in 
the same direction, they also felt. But when Hugh Latimer 
preached before king and court, and Henry was pleased, the 
cause received a decided impetus. If, however, Lutheran- 
ism triuinphed, Catholicism scowled and bided its time. Sir 
Thomas More, who had succeeded Wolsey as Chancellor, 
was often present, sometimes with the ominous shadow in 
his eyes, really, though not openly, against Anne and for 
Catherine. He took but little notice of Hal ; though Wil- 
liam Roper, who sometimes accompanied him, spoke kindly 
to his former page. Hal now employed what leisure time he 
had in reading and studying his books in manuscript and 
])rint with less attempt at secrecy than ever. He doubted 
not that his teacher was in sympathy with him ; and yet 
whenever Lutheranism or Catholicism was spoken of Master 
Horton was careful not to take either side ; — a course not 
considered strange in one habitually quiet and taciturn to 
such a degree as to excite ridicule amongst the courtiers. 

In the spring of 1530 the court found its way again to 
York Place, and Hal could now and then snatch a few mo- 
ments for the society of the Mon mouths. Our hero was 


ENCO UEA GEMENT. 


169 


now nineteen years of age, tall and well-proportioned, with 
a countenance not only intellectual, but expressing great 
delicacy and almost extreme sensibility, and possessed of 
engaging manners. He was dressed like a young gentleman 
belonging to the court, in doublet, cloak, and hose of blue 
velvet, but he wore no ornament save the jeweled ring 
which Wolsey had given him. Christopher was fast as- 
suming the appearance of a well-to-do merchant. Edith 
was developing into the woman her sweet girlhood had 
promised. What a retreat the Monmouth mansion was to 
Hal from the giddy court, with which, however, he had 
little to do except as he sang in the chapel or in the 
presence of Lady Anne and her maids, some of the latter 
smiling upon him and addressing him in honeyed accents. 
Whether Hal’s life would be as innocent when not under 
the stern guardianship of Master Hoi’ton might be doubt- 
ful, were it not for the New Testament, and especially the 
manuscript, associated as was the latter with the beautiful 
lady of whom he still thought and dreamed almost despair- 
ingly as his mother. Besides, there was another restraint 
which the youth would never cease to feel, and that was the 
sisterly attachment of Edith Monmouth. Hardly a day 
passed but some of Christ’s poor and persecuted ones had 
reason to bless her for her ministrations, imparted ofttimes 
at great risk to herself. She did not share in the sanguine 
hopes which her brother cherished at this time. 

One day when Hal was present Christopher declared that 
ever since the proceedings of the divorce had commenced 
all true lovers of the Reformation had reason to rejoice. 

“ Pardon me, sweet brother,” said Edith, “ but say not all. 
While these proceedings have been going on how many 
godly people have been branded on the cheeks, and not per- 
mitted to hide the mark nor to let their beards grow, so 
that they might be held up to public ignominy as long as 
they lived; how many of them have been compelled to 
abjure, and then to wear a fagot wrought in thread or 
painted on their left sleeve, so that they might be univer- 


170 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


sally avoided and nobody should employ them ; how many 
of them — and meseems their fate is not much sadder than 
that of the others — have been burnt at the stake.” 

“ All you say is true, sweet Edith,” replied Christopher, 
“ and much of it you know questionless from your own 
observation. Nathless, I believe that when Queen Catherine 
began to fall the Reformation began to rise ; and when the 
beautiful Anne Boleyn is queen it will be firmly established 
and can defy all opposition. When that day comes I will 
fling up my cap and cry, ‘ Hurrah ! ’ ” 

The ardent young man threw his cap to the wall, for he 
had just taken it to leave the house with Hal. 

But Edith, instead of sympathizing with him in his hila- 
rious anticipations, looked anxious and sad. 

“What aileth thee, sweet Edith?” her brother inquired, 
a slight expression of vexation visiting his round, laughing 
face. 

“Be not displeased, dear Christopher,” replied Edith, 
“but I cannot away with this divorce.” 

“Why so?” asked her brother. “The king’s marriage 
with Catherine was contrary to the laws of God and man, 
as hath been decided by seventeen universities abroad, 
and by those of Cambridge and Oxford at home; and 
eke Luther and Zuingle agree with them, not to speak 
of Richard Wakefield, the greatest Hebrew scholar, and 
Giovanni Stafileo, the greatest Roman canonist.” 

“ It ill becomes me to say what silly women think,” an- 
swered Edith, fixing upon him her calm, blue eyes. “ I can 
mention that good, stout yeoman, Dick Braynton, and some 
others like him, and that scholar and saint withal. Master 
Tyndale. And I misdoubt it was a ruthless hand that sep- 
arated that sweet lady, Anne Boleyn, from Lord Percy, her 
lover, who is now wretched with a woman whom he was 
compelled to marry without loving. Ah, Christopher, I 
greatly fear that when she supplants her former mistress, 
the long-tried and faithful wife of his highness, her exalted 
position — though his highness hath princely qualities — will 


ENCO UitA GEMEHT. 


171 


be one of sorrow, and her light, in which so many good 
peo2)le are singing glad songs, will go out in darkness.” 
Edith’s eyes filled with tears. “ Nathless, Christopher,” she 
continued, and a seraphic glow, as it seemed to Hal, illumi- 
nated her features, “God will educe good from this seeming 
ill. That the day which long ago began to dawn is slowly 
advancing, and the sun, though hidden for a while by murky 
clouds, will yet shine gloriously, I do not doubt. The light 
which God hath set in the heavens will not go out in dark- 
ness, though that to which multitudes are looking may. 
Alas, sweet lady, I pray that my forebodings will not 
prove true.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


REVELATION. 


O come, be buried 
A second time within these arms. 


Shakspeare. 


AL understood Master Horton better from day to day. 



J — L Tliough he still found him incommunicative on 
points of difference between the Catholics and the Re- 
formers, yet his own views and feelings in reference to 
them which he ventured to express to him called forth no 
rebuke, but, as he imagined, sympathy from those calm and 
searching eyes. Those eyes were wonderful. Hal felt that 
they knew how much he read Wicklift’e’s Gospel of John, 
and Tyndale’s New Testament, though he never had 
mentioned the books to him ; how much he studied his 
tasks; how much he visited the Monmouths; almost the 
very secrets of his heart. Doubtless they possessed no 
such insight bordering on omniscience ; yet the impression, 
not altogether pleasant, Hal could not shake off, but bore 
submissively, because he regarded Master Horton as his 
friend, and went to him for advice, which was never re- 
fused and was always wise and kindly. The other pupils, 
however, chafed under this close inspection, and loudly 
complained, though they dared not rebel ; but they made 
such progress in their studies as pleased the king, and 
increased his . admiration for the silent, austere, faithful 
man, their teacher. 

After a while, the intercourse between Master Horton and 
Hal became less reserved. Once, as the youth was making 
some reference to his early life. Master Horton, to his sur- 
prise and delight, encouraged him to give an account of it. 


BEVELATION. 


173 


The teacher listened quietly, and asked to see the manu- 
script. As Hal put it into his hand, and he began to turn 
over its leaves, there was a wondering look on his usually 
impassive face, and fixing his searching, now moistened 
eyes upon Hal, he bade him tell all he remembered about the 
lady whom he regarded as its owner. When Hal obeyed, 
adding but little, however, to what he had already related, 
he handed back the manuscript without saying another 
word. “ Dost think, sir,” asked the youth, timidly, “ that 
this lady was my mother?” His teacher shook his head. 
“ For thy birth thou art not responsible, only for thy con- 
duct. Let that be pure, and all is well.” And uttering a 
brief blessing he left him. 

A few days after this interview Master Horton entered 
Hal’s room as he was busy conning his lesson, and requested 
him to repair at once to Mr. Monmouth’s house, and take 
with him his manuscript. The youth opened his eyes in 
astonishment, but Master Horton, without explaining, 
turned calmly on his heel and left. 

On arriving at the Monmouth mansion Christopher met 
him at the door and led him up a flight of stairs, and into 
a private parlor, where was sitting a lady dressed in mourn- 
ing. Christopher’s face beamed with affection, and bowing 
respectfully, he said, “ Dear aunt. Lady Templeton, I will 
acquaint you with my sweet friend, Hal.” He then retired. 
The lady rose. Hal noticed that her form was slight, 
though exquisitely moulded, her features were regular, and 
resembled Mrs. Monmouth’s, only they expressed superior 
refinement and delicacy. There was about her, however, 
a something almost ethereal, as though she were a messen- 
ger from the world of spirits. But as the youth approached 
her, the illusion was dispelled by the sweet smile that lighted 
up her pale face, and by her gentle voice of greeting. 

“I have taken the liberty to send for thee,” she said, as 
her white hand grasped his, “sith Christopher hath told me 
some chapters of thy history ; and thou hast a manuscript 
withal, which, if it pleaseth thee, I would like to see,” 


174 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


While speaking she was closely scanning his features, and 
he was modestly examining hers. With trembling hand, 
and without saying a word, Hal drew from his pocket his 
precious manuscript, and handed it to the lady. 

Taking it and turning over its leaves, her face betrayed 
the deepest w'onder, gratitude, and joy, and she lifted up 
her eyes to Heaven. But without expressing her emotions 
further, she bade Hal sit beside her on a cushioned joint- 
stool, and inform her how he came into the possession of the 
manuscript. 

Hal told all he could remember of a mansion where he 
once lived when he was a little boy; of a lady who 
used to call him by endearing names; of servants, espe- 
cially of one who had the care of him, who led him away 
to the gypsies, and who had this manuscript ; giving a com- 
plete description of her. She could hardly control herself 
as he proceeded, and now exclaimed, “ Enow, enow ; it is 
my sweet child ! ” 

Hal threw himself at her feet, and seizing and kissing 
her hand, he began to sob for joy, and could only cry out, 
“ My mother ! have I found thee ? My mother ! ” 

Lady Templeton drew him up, and throwing her arms 
around him, embraced and kissed him, saying, “Nay, my 
dear lad, not thy own mother, though I am proud to be 
called such. How cruel of me,” noticing a shadow visiting 
the face of Hal, “ to disappoint thee. Sit again by my side 
and I will tell thee all I know. Mayhap it will assist thee 
in finding her. Till then call me mother. How sad, sweet 
one, that thou canst not remember thy own mother ; though 
hadst thou not been taken from me by that wicked woman I 
should have loved thee all these years like her ; and now I 
promise to love thee to the end, which I fear may come very 
soon.” The lady paused a moment as if wearied and faint, 
when Hal, calling a servant for a glass of watef, handed it 
to her upon his knees. After drinking she thanked him, and 
bidding him sit beside her, went on : — 

“ It was in 1513 a good-looking young woman, with a boy 


REVELATION. 


175 


about two years old, came to my home and asked to be em- 
ployed as a domestic. Having lost a son of that age a short 
time before, and struck with her interesting features, I entered 
into conversation with the girl. She said that her husband 
had recently died, leaving her with this one child. As my 
heart went out toward the little one, and my husband did 
not object, I determined to take them into my family. 
Afterward, from the utter contrast between them in feature 
and disposition, and from divers contradictory statements of 
hers, I suspected that the child was not her own and so gave 
her the title of nurse. Some two years had passed when an old 
minstrel appeared who j^layed skilfully on the harp, and soon 
she with the child was missing. Search was made for them far 
and near, but without success ; and at length we decided that 
she must have taken one of the vessels sailing from Bristol, 
near which is my residence, for Spain. She had sometimes 
spoken of that country, though she said she never had been 
there. We had not heard of gypsies being in the neighborhood, 
and I did not once think that she had joined them. I grieved 
over the loss of the boy, whom I much loved and had taught 
to call me mother ; having resolved to act a mother’s part 
until the happy woman who could claim that title should be 
found. 

“ Promise to be my mother alway, dear lady,” cried Hal, 
fervently, “ and I will look for no other.” 

“ I misdoubt she would not thank me for that, sweet one. 
My heart tells me thou wilt yet see her. I have prayed that 
I might look upon thee once more, and the Lord hath heard 
me. And eke the Lord will hear me when I pray that thou 
mayest find thy own mother. I was about to say that I 
grieved not only over thy loss but over that of this dear book, 
which had been my constant closet companion from the time I 
was cut off from the society of my loved sister and friends 
in London.” 

“ Then the book was yours, as I thought, sweet mother, 
— sith you permit me to call you thus,” — said Hal. 
“My mind’s eye hath seen thy face bending over it oft, 


176 


THE BOY-LOLLAEB. 


Methinks” — gazing at her, — “ ’tis wondrous like, save ” 

Hal paused. 

“ Save what, sweet one ? ” asked she. 

“ Save that thy cheeks are thinner and paler, methinks. 
The eyes and brow are wondrous like.” 

Lady Templeton smiled faintly. “ ’Twas a long time ago. 
How couldst thou have carried my image so many years ? 
Wouldst thou have seen the resemblance an I had not told 
thee thou wast the very boy I once held in my arms?” 

“ Ay,” cried Hal, “ and would have called thee mother 
ere this.” 

The lady looked pleased. “I am glad to hear that my 
book hath done thee so much good, and thou hast been ac- 
counted worthy to suffer in his name whose Word it is ; for 
Christopher hath told me the whole story. Had I kenned it 
was doing such a noble work I should not have bewept its 
loss as I did. I prized it sith it was the gift of a friend of 
mine — and eke of thine — who- had transcribed it himself. 
I mean Master Horton. Thou startest as one amazed. Mas- 
ter Horton is a true friend of the Reformation, though a 
silent one.” 

“ Is’t possible he himself transcribed this book ? ” asked 
Hal. “ Then he brought about this interview.” 

“ He did,” replied the lady. “ Indeed, soon after my hus- 
band’s death, — which was but a short time sithence, — I re- 
ceived from him word concerning thee, and it hastened my 
coming.” 

“ You must have known him many years ago,” said the 
youth. 

“ Ay,” said Lady Templeton. “ He was connected with 
our household when our little boy died, having been an ac- 
quaintance of the Templeton family. He showed me much 
sympathy in my bereavement and my religious isolation, 
secretly giving me this manuscript, which he told me was the 
work of his own hand. Soon after, ere I first saw thee, he 
left, and I learned naught about him till I received his recent 
letter,” 


REVELATION. 


177 


“ Hast seen lovers of the Gospel sithence, dear mother ? ” 
asked Hal. 

“Ay, dear boy,” she replied; “but not many after I 
heard Master Tyndale preach.” Noticing his eager look, 
she continued, “ I heard that holy man preach in Bristol. 
He was then tutor and chaplain in the family of Sir John 
Walsh, who resided in the manor-house of Little Sodbury, 
not far away. Afterward, he being accused of heresy, my 
husband was violent against him. Thou hast heard, may- 
hap, of the controversy between him and the ecclesiastics 
of that region, and how, when one of them said, ‘We were 
better be without God’s laws than the pope’s,’ he replied, 
‘ I defy the pope and all his laws. If God spare my life, 
ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough 
shall know more of the Scripture than thou doest.’ Master 
Tyndale declaimed everywhere against the errors of papacy, 
and made no secret of his intention to translate the Scrip- 
tures. I trembled for his safety, especially sith I heard the 
fiercest threats against him at my own table. Feeling it 
my duty to warn Master Tyndale of his danger, and eke to 
hear him preach once more, I rode over to little Sodbury on 
horseback, accompanied by a servant, and after listening to 
this man of God in the small church of St. Adeline, close 
behind the manor-house, I had the pleasure of an introduc- 
tion to him. After thanking me for my solicitude in his 
behalf, he informed me that he was to start on the following 
day for London, where he hoped to prepare his translation 
under the patronage of Tunstal, who had recently become 
Bishop of London. He hoped to do it sith Tunstal was the 
friend of More and Erasmus. Alas, what disappointment 
awaited him ! Pie also gave me counsel which hath comforted 
my heart and guided my steps sithence. My husband had 
forbidden my hearing Master Tyndale again, and he was very 
angry at my disobedience.” 

“How could he have treated thee so cruelly?” asked 
Hal, in an impulse of indignation. 

“Hush, my darling,” said the lady, raising her thin hand 


178 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


Avarningly. “These are cruel times, and there are sad dif- 
ferences of opinion and conviction, setting nearest friends 
against each other. But I liave already talked with thee 
beyond my strength, I fear. I am admonished that this 
interview must stop. After taking a little rest I will see 
tliee again.” And when she had affectionately kissed him, 
he took his departure. 

Hal had another interview wdth Lady Templeton during 
the day. He was informed further that the nurse was ex- 
ceedingly vain and fond of attentions from the other sex ; 
that several times she was seen with a stranger, a hand- 
some and showy young man ; and that she occasionally dis- 
appeared for days together, and excused herself by saying 
that she had been to visit a sick sister in Sodbury. To 
Hal’s inquiry whether slie had ever been connected with the 
cardinal’s household, the lady replied, “Possibly, sith she 
had in her possession several gold trinkets, which she 
boasted were his gifts.” And when Hal’s countenance fell, 
she said, “Nay, sweet one, she never treated thee like a 
child of her own, though she w^as exceedingly fond of thee ; 
besides, hadst tliou belonged to that wicked priest, she 
would have made it knowm to him and thus introduced thee 
to high honors.” Hal shook his head and answered sorrow- 
fully, “ She would not have dared, sweet mother, sith such 
lapses amongst the gypsies are abhorred and terribly pun- 
ished. That handsome young stranger was Lee, w^hom she 
had married. She told him, I ween, that I was thy child, 
and they sought to bring me up as their owm that they 
might make a gypsy of me. I might never know the de- 
ception ; or, if I did, might not choose to change my condi- 
tion. Scions of rank or wealth stolen by tl)is people in 
infancy prefer to be wandering gypsies to returning to the 
mansions from which they were taken and claiming their 
rights. Had I been stolen at that period, questionless I 
should have become a thorough gypsy ; and e’en as it was I 
am visited by longings sometimes for that wild and lawless 
life which I can hardly shake off.” 


REVELATION. 


179 


The reader may remember that our hero has not been 
known to express himself thus freely before in regard to 
this strange people ; perhaps he would not now to any one 
but Lady Templeton. As to Wolsey’s fatherhood, he knew 
that it was generally credited, and he had of late been more 
afraid than ever to look into the matter further lest it 
should be proved. But now he was resolved, as soon as he 
could have command of his time, to find the nurse and 
compel her to tell him the truth ; and he upbraided himself 
for having let opportunities to get at this secret pass unim- 
proved. 

Master Horton relaxed his discipline in Hal’s case, per- 
mitting him to spend more of his time at the Monmouth 
mansion. He even accompanied him there, and greeted 
Lady Templeton with some demonstration of feeling. Ere 
long he became an occasional guest of the family. 

Lady Templeton had been, before her marriage, the belle 
of the metropolis and heiress of a rich London merchant. 
Amongst the many noblemen captivated by her charms and 
her prospective wealth was Lord William Templeton, who 
won her affection and married her. This displeased his 
relatives. They wanted him to marry one of his own rank, 
and therefore received the young bride with haughty cold- 
ness. Their influence was felt by Lord Templeton, who was 
a very proud man ; and, though at first fond of his beautiful 
wife, he began ere long to treat her with neglect. The birth 
of a child, a son, drew him towards her again ; but upon his 
early death, when the aristocratic relatives of the husband 
whispered in his ear her attachment to the reformed doc- 
trines, he gradually became estranged from her. A bigoted 
papist, and of a hard and tyrannical disposition, when he 
found he could not mould her after the pattern of his owm 
opinions, he deprived her of all intercourse with her sister 
and her other friends in London, making her a virtual pris- 
oner in her own home. In her retirement and sadness she 
fastened her affection upon the little child she had taken 
into the family, and mourned his loss almost as she had that 


180 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


of her own boy. Lord Templeton, however, took but little 
pains to find him. Her sister, Mrs. Monmouth, knew nothing 
about the matter, as he never called on the Monmouths’, and 
when he met them at court always gave short and unsatis- 
factory answers to their anxious inquiries concerning her. 
For about a year he had been in feeble health, and had not 
appeared at court. During this time very few of his rela- 
tives and friends visited him, — for he was not a favorite, — 
so that he Avas much of the time alone with his Avife. For- 
getful of all her Avrongs, she gently and affectionately nursed 
him till even his heart was touched. As death approached, 
the rector of the church, a boon companion of his, could 
afford him no comfort ; and his wife pointed him to the 
Saviour. He now seemed to realize faintly Avho Avas his best 
earthly friend : even she whose young life he had so cruelly 
blighted; and he may have had a glimpse of the divine 
Friend, for the first time, as she read to his attentive ears 
from Mr. Tynd ale’s NeAv Testament. The last Avord he 
uttered Avas, “ forgive ” ; and her loving heart interpreted it 
not only as a plea to herself but to the Saviour. Alas ! Of 
many a household in England, in that age of bitter strife be- 
tAveen truth and error, the same sad tale could be told, only 
Avithout the reconciliation at the close. 

Lady Templeton Avas Mrs. Monmouth’s only sister, and 
older than she by two years. After the long separation 
their reunion was sadly joyful. The elder sister showed 
traces of a superiority to the younger in beauty and grace 
and sweetness of disposition, though not in force of char- 
acter. Admired, loved, flattered, in her charming maiden- 
hood, she had not been prepared for the infelicities of her 
married life. And yet her piety, transplanted to this un- 
propitious soil, did not die; on the other hand it grew. 
This was true of the passive rather than the active virtues. 
Edith Monmouth possessed her aunt’s attractions ; but she 
surpassed both her aunt and her mother in that element of 
heroism, which w^e have already noticed, and Avhich Avas de- 
veloping more and more every day. Many of the court 


ItEVELATION, 


181 


gallants had already become her avowed admirers, amongst 
whom was Sir George Templeton, who could now call the 
oftener on the plea of seeing his aunt, to whom it should be 
acknowledged he had shown more kindness than the other 
relatives. 

Lady Templeton had intended to remain with the Mon- 
mouths only a few weeks. But soon after her arrival her 
health began to decline. Her long and anxious vigils over 
her husband in his last sickness had told upon her delicate 
frame, and as she drooped from day to day, all feared that 
she would not rally — all but Hal. The forebodings ex- 
pressed at times in the faces around him were not reflected 
in Ids. He would not believe that his best friend whom he 
had been longing to see from boyhood, and had at length 
found, was to be taken from him so soon. He spent a great 
deal of time in her room, reading to her from the manuscript 
and printed Scripture. She gave him much excellent coun- 
sel, and told him she doubted not he would discover his 
parents in good time. If she hinted to him any doubts in 
regard to her recovery, he would look so distressed that she 
avoided the subject. But at length she decided to tell him 
plainly her condition, and so prepare his mind for the part- 
ing, which could not be far distant. It was nearer, however, 
than herself or any of .her friends supposed ; for ere she had 
fulfilled her resolution the summons came. Hal, on entering 
her chamber, found her suddenly breathing her last with the 
weeping family around her. She was conscious, and the last 
expression of her face was a smile of affectionate recogni- 
tion. The heart-broken youth fainted and fell to the floor. 

Lady Templeton’s remains were taken to Bristol, and in- 
terred with the usual ceremonies under the old church in 
which she had so often devoutly knelt, though in little sym- 
pathy with the worldly rector. Mrs. Monmouth, Edith, and 
Hal were present, together with the relatives of Lord 
Templeton ; — a brother who succeeded to the estate, some 
sisters, and Sir George Temjfleton with his three ladies. 
After the service the Templetons, except Sir George, greeted 


182 


THE BOY-LOLLAEB. 


the Monniouths with coldness; and when Sir George ex- 
plained to them Hal’s connection with the deceased lady, 
they gave him no further notice than simply fixing on him 
their eyes opened wdde in astonishment. The mourners 
were, however, invited to the family mansion, where a meal 
was served with formal and stately courtesy. Mrs. Mon- 
mouth had been here many years before, Edith never, and 
the associations were painful ; but to Hal the place where 
he had spent a part of his early boyhood was singularly inter- 
esting and attractive. The charm of that period had been 
enhanced to his imagination by the contrast of his gypsy 
life. The rooms and their appointments, and even the faces 
of some of the older servants which he had seen in far back 
and sunny days, and of which he had often dreamed, seemed 
familiar to him. While gathered with the rest in the parlor, 
where the Templetons still kept the same icy reserve, an 
aged domestic, who had entered on some errand, motioned 
to Hal to follow him. He obeyed the signal. As soon as 
they were alone, the servant said that his mistress had con- 
fided to him the reason of her hastening to London. “ And 
now,” he continued, “ I trow thou art her boy who wast 
stolen. Oh, how my poor mistress grieved then, though she 
had much greater and sorer troubles. I little thought, alack, 
wlien she left, I should ne’er see her again alive;” — the 
servant burst into a flood of tears; — “nathless, I rejoice 
that she had the presence of her lost child.” The good old 
man asked Hal to relate to him the particulars of her sick- 
ness, and then, at the youth’s request, he showed him the 
chamber where he had formerly slept, and over the bed was the 
same canopy, adorned with flowers and religious emblems, 
which his boyish eyes used to wonder over and study. 

Some days after the return of the Monmouths with Hal, as 
he entered their dwelling he found them together in the 
parlor. 

“ We have been wishing to see thee, Hal, about leaving 
the court and taking up thy abode with us,” said Mr. Mon- 
mouth. “ Master Horton saith to me that in a few months 


BEVELATION. 183 

thou wilt reach thy majority, when he need no longer tutor 
thee, and he will ask permission of the king.” 

Hal could only falter out his gratitude in broken sen- 
tences. 

“I cannot have the same place in thy heart my sister had, 
I fear,” said Mrs. Monmouth, “ nathless, I will call thee my 
son, an thou wilt.” 

“ Thou shalt be dear to me, Hal, for my sweet aunt’s sake,” 
declared Edith. “ I loved her ere I saw her ; and whiles slie 
was with us I loved her more and more each day.” And her 
blue eyes looked affectionately on him. . 

“ I shall no longer call thee Friend Hal, but Brother Hal,* 
laughed Christopher, while the tears were in his eyes, and 
patting his back familiarly. “Thou hast some friends I 
wis,” he continued soberly, “ e’en though he be dead who 
would have been a good friend to thee questionless had he 
won his way back to royal favor.” 

“ Is the cardinal dead ? ” asked Hal, astonished. 

“ Ay,” replied Christopher, astonished in return. “ How 
couldst thou be at court and not hear on’t ? ” 

“ I have kept my room sithence our return, having no 
relish for the festivities around me,” answered Hal. “I 
have seen none but Master Horton, who hath said naught to 
me but about my studies and my great loss. I never knew 
afore he had so much sympathy. The cardinal dead ! ” He 
spoke the last sentence with deep feeling. 

“Ay,” said Christopher, “and I understand thee, Hal. 
The cardinal — I would say it an I knew he was nothing to 
thee — had some noble and princely virtues.” 

“ I hear that sithence he retired to his bishopric,” said 
Edith, “he hath practiced faithfully the duties of his office, 
and the people were beginning to love him. And eke he 
hath not been so violent a persecutor as some would make 
him. One of the charges against him is his leniency towards 
those who are termed heretics.” 

“ Hast heard, sweet sister, the request he sent the king a 
little while before his death ? ” 


184 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“ I have not, sweet Christopher.” 

“ It was in God’s name that he have a vigilant eye to de- 
press this new sect of Luther, that it do not increase within 
his dominions through his negligence, in such a sort as that 
he shall be fain at length to put harness on his back to sub- 
due them.” 

“Alas,” said Edith, sadly, “I heard that these were his 
dying words, — would there were no other, — ‘If I had 
served my God as diligently as I have done the king, he 
would not have given me over in my gray hairs.’ ” 

“We must leave him with God,” said Mr. Monmouth, 
solemnly. Noticing that there were tears in Hal’s eyes, he 
added, tenderly, “ I will be to thee a father.” 

Hal threw himself on his knees. “I am thankful and 
proud, sir,” he exclaimed, “ to be allowed to call you father. 
And it will be my joy, madam, to call you mother, and thus 
link you the more closely to one I had just begun to love 
with a filial affection which I had never felt before when she 
was snatched from me” — his emotions would not permit 
him to proceed. 

Mr. Monmouth kindly raised him up, and Mrs. Monmouth, 
giving him a motherly embrace, tried to soothe his grief. 

“ Edith,” said Christopher, “ canst thou repeat those lines 
of Richard Rolle,* which thou dost like so well? Hal hath 
seen my copy of his metrical paraphrases of Scripture. But 
those lines are better I ween, and meseems they apply 
to our aunt now in heaven.” They certainly sounded 
very sweetly as they glided into Hal’s soul for the first time, 
uttered by Edith’s voice. 

“ Ther is lyf withoute ony deth, 

And ther is youthe without ony elde; 

And ther is alle manner welthe to welde: 

And ther is rest without ony travaille; 

And ther is pees without ony strife, 

And ther is alle manner lykinge of lyfe : — 

* Lived about 1350. Chambers’s “ Cyclopaedia of English Literature,” vol. i 
p. 12. ’ 


BEVELATION. 


185 


And ther is bright somer ever to se, 

And ther is nevere wynter in that conn trie : — 
And ther is more worshipe and honour 
Then evere hade kynge other emperour, 

And ther is grete melodie of anngeles songe, 
And ther is preysing hem amonge. 

And ther is alle manner frendshipe that may be, 
And ther is evere perfect love and charite ; 

And ther is wisdom withot folye, 

And ther is honeste without vileneye. 

All these a man may joys of hevene call: - 
Ac yutte the most sovereyn joye of alle 
Is the sighte of Goddes bright face, 

In whom resteth alle mannere grace.” 




CHAPTER XXL 


TERROR. 

I want no other red hat than that of martyrdom, reddened by my own blood. 

Savonarola. 

H al now looked forward with joyful anticipation to 
the time when he should become a member of the 
Monmouth family. His residence at court was more and 
more distasteful. The scenes through which he had passed 
of late unfitted him for the continual gala-day at the royal 
palace at Greenwich. Besides, his sensitive conscience was 
shocked by tlie intimacy between the king and Lady Anne, 
even while the poor, discarded queen was in the same build- 
ing. Hal’s heart bled for Catherine, as, early in the morn- 
ing, he often met her on her return from the monastery, and 
he longed to cast himself at her feet. Not that Anne ceased 
to fascinate him with her witching smiles and kindly greet- 
ings, and especially her lavish praises of his singing. But 
Master Horton kept him so busy at his studies that it was 
impossible, even were he so disposed, to have much to do 
with the court. Perhaps Master Horton was determined that 
while the youth remained under his care he should receive 
no contamination from the unfavorable surroundings. If 
so, he succeeded remarkably well. Certainly this strange 
and silent man exerted a saving influence over Hal. Never 
did the latter read and study his manuscript and printed 
Scripture with less fear than at this time. It is true that 
the use of the New Testament in English was forbidden; 
but had not the king promised — and what he promised he 
would fulfil — “that he would cause the New Testament 
to be faithfully and purely translated into the English 
tongue, that it might be freely given to the people when he 
186 


TERROR. 


187 


saw thejr manner and behaviour convenient to receive the 
same?”* It is true that the people were required “to 
expell and purge from their breasts all contagious doctrines 
and pestiferous traditions ” which they may have received 
from reading the New Testament in English ; but had not 
the king, who loved plain dealing, courteously received from 
Hugh Latimer a very fearless and faithful letter on the free 
circulation of the Scriptures in the English tongue, in 
which the preacher reminded him of his promise, and 
prayed God he would perform it shortly, “even to-clay, 
before to-morrow?” t It is true that the king, according 
to the decision of the most learned men in his realm, con- 
demned the writings of Tyndale as heretical ; but had not 
Cromwell, who to some extent had taken the place of his 
master, Wolsey, in the royal counsels, invited Tyndale to 
return to England, promising protection, apparently with 
Henry’s knowledge and concurrence? With these matters 
Hal, retired though he kept himself, could not but be con- 
versant, since they were in everybody’s mouth. He well 
knew that there were two parties at court, the one for and 
the other against the Reformation, and victory would be 
with the party which succeeded in gaining the confidence of 
the king. And why should not victory be with the party 
for the Reformation, he thought, since Cranmer, and Lati- 
mer, and Cromwell, and especially Lady Anne Boleyn her- 
self, were favorable to it ? 

But now an event occurred which brought disappointment 
and chagrin to countenances that had been hopeful, and 
triumph to those that had been despairing. Mr. Tyndale 
issued a book in which he condemned the divorce. He 
was always ready to declare what he believed to be the 
truth, even though his friends forsook him and he stood 
alone. The king was angry, and, with the aid of Cromwell, 
instead of inviting him to return, sought his apprehension. 
Sir Thomas More’s “ Dialogue ” — a book he had written 
against Luther and Tyndale — was becoming popular at 

* Demaus’s “ Latimer,” p. 96. t Demaus’s “ Latimer,” p. 101. 


188 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


court; while he himself was often there, with the shadow 
in his eyes profounder than ever. 

But at length Hal became of age, and Henry consented 
to his departure, on condition that he should still sing in 
the royal chapel. With a round oath he declared he 
couldn’t spare him and wouldn’t. 

The usually impassive Master Horton manifested some 
emotion as Hal took his leave of him, and he said, “ God 
bless you and keep you safe in these troublous times.” 

The young man expressed his gratitude for the great 
good Master Horton had done him. 

“ Thou art the only one of my pupils that prizeth me,” 
he replied ; and as if ashamed of what seemed to be a 
quiver in his voice and a tear in his eye, he turned away 
abruptly. 

Hal had little acquaintance with the other pupils, repelled 
by both their haughty manners and dissolute conduct. He 
pitied Master Horton, who advanced them in their studies 
only by the severest discipline, and who was hated by them 
cordially for it. 

Hal had of late heard of the gypsy band as in the neigh- 
borhood of London, wandering uneasily about. A statute 
had recently been enacted against them, by which they 
were “ directed to avoid the realm, and not to return under 
pain of imprisonment and forfeiture of their goods and 
chattels.” But as they were generally supposed to possess 
supernatural insight and power, none had as yet ventured 
to molest them. A few who had threatened them lost their 
cattle by a strange disease, which was ascribed to witch- 
craft, though one or two of the more intelligent said 
the gypsies had cast poison-powders into the mangers 
at night. Sir Thomas More had suffered in this re- 
spect. Hal had twice met the old minstrel and his grand- 
daughter issuing from the departments of Queen Catherine, 
but where he had no opportunity to speak to them. He 
had several times caught glimpses of Hearne and Lee at 
fairs in London, in which they had pugilistic encounters. 


TIJBROE. 


189 


Once Hearne took him aside and told him they were think- 
ing of crossing the sea, and urged him to accompany them. 
But when tlie youth immediately besought him to reveal 
his parentage he scowled and left him. 

As Hal turned his face toward his new home, and was 
passing through the muddy streets of London slowly on 
horseback, a mounted servant behind him with his little 
stock of goods, — the horses and the servant belonging to 
Mr. Monmouth, — he came at length to the Standard at 
Clieapside, where his further progress was impeded by a 
crowd. It was a noisy crowd, even for a London one, since 
it contained in itself elements bitterly hostile to each other. 
Nearly all who composed it were more or less excited, some 
laughing loudly and uttering coarse jokes, others expressing 
indignation, and even defiance and curses. Hal speedily 
learned the reason. Two men were on horseback, their 
faces turned toward the tail, with many copies of the pro- 
hibited New Testament fastened to their cloaks. Hal 
recognized them both, having seen them at Mr. Monmouth’s 
house. They were tradesmen, and had been circulating the 
Word of God. One of them was Mr. John Tyndalo, 
brother of William, the translator, who, as Hal knew, had 
sent him money and corresponded with him. The other 
was Thomas Patmore, whom Hal had heard say before a 
large company at Mr. Monmouth’s table that the truth of 
Scripture was at last reappearing in the world, after being 
hid for many ages. All this he knew had doubtless been 
found out by Sir Thomas More and Stokesly, the new 
Bishop of London, a violent hater of the Reformation, and 
after frightening these poor men into humiliating conces- 
sions they had exposed them thus to the jeers of the mob. 

Alas ! written upon the faces of all gazing at the sight — 
for those were tell-tale faces of love or of hatred for the 
Reformation — was the story so oft repeated amongst Eng- 
lish Christians thus far, of recreancy when the only alterna- 
tive was burning at the stake. Some of the faces, which 
would have gloated on their sufferings had these two men 


190 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


been true to their convictions and accepted the alternative, 
were now lighted up with malignant triumph, while the 
most scornful taunts were hurled at them, especially at Mr. 
John Tyndale. 

“The Brethren are woundily brave,” bawled one, “till 
they are called upon to face the fagot, and then they are 
cowardly enow.” 

“ Marry, they had rather face their horse’s tail,” bawled 
another. 

“Or turn tail themselves,” bawled still another. 

“ See the brother of the arch-heretic who wrote those 
vile books,” exclaimed one ; “ how like he is to him ! ” 

“Ay,” exclaimed another, “as chicken to chicken. Me- 
seems, an the bishops catch Master William, he’ll not get 
oif so easily.” 

“ An Master William is like Master John he’ll not come 
to his death by burning, I warrant ye,” was shouted ; “ for 
he’ll be scared to death afore we can light the fagots.” 

There is nothing sometimes more potent than ridicule. 
Voices which had been raised in sympathy for the men were 
hushed, and on every side were looks of mortification and 
shame. 

Noticing that the horse on which John Tyndale sat was 
becoming restive, Hal leaped from his beast, which the ser- 
vant took in charge, and went to his assistance. 

“ Let the heretic alone,” a voice thundered in his ear. 
Hal turned and saw the fighting friar. This man had of 
late done considerable execution with his fists. Whenever 
a crowd had gathered together he was sure to be present, 
and if any one uttered a word in behalf of the Reformation 
he would dispute it, and at once begin to settle it as he 
attempted to do with William Roper, and generally he came 
off victorious. “Aha!” he exclaimed, wdth a sneer, as he 
recognized the young man, “I did not finish you quite, it 
seems, but I will now.” Hal immediately nerved himself for 
the unequal combat. The servant had passed on, none in the 
crowd dared to interfere, and his antagonist w'as not afraid 


TER BOR. 


191 


of being called to account. But Hal was brave, and had 
developed physically a great deal since his last encounter 
with the ruffian ; and besides, he longed to chastise his in- 
solence. Before a blow was struck, however, a newcomer 
appeared and placed himself between Hal and the friar. 

“ What, to ’t again ! ” he exclaimed. “ This time thou 
shalt take one of thine own size.” It was Lee. The con- 
flict had lasted but a little while, when Lee, with a powerful 
blow of his fist, felled the friar to the earth. Disdaining to 
strike a prostrate foe, lie strode proudly away, a lane being 
made for liirn through the crowd. “ I’ll have my revenge 
yet,” growled the friar, as with difficulty he lifted himself 
from the ground, and slunk away. 

Hal was now virtually adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Mon- 
mouth, and the option was left him to engage in trade with 
Christopher or assist Edith in her studies. He chose the 
latter. 

Many hours of each day they spent together, with Eras- 
mus’s New Testament before them, containing the original 
Greek, and the Latin translation, in columns side by side; 
with Greek and Latin lexicons, to which they referred for 
the meaning of words ; and with Wickliffe’s and Tyndale’s 
Scripture translations, with which they compared their own. 
It was employment congenial to them both, and from which 
they could at any time with difficulty tear themselves away. 
Hal was an accurate scholar, an enthusiast in Scripture 
study, and Edith was quick to catch spiritual ideas. But 
they had other things to think of and move them, for a time 
of persecution had commenced. Few of the Brethren ven- 
tured into the Monmouth mansion, and they whispering with 
white lips the most terrible tales of cruelty. Sir Thomas 
More, now chancellor, and Stokesly, were at work, and 
were thoroughly in earnest. What could the Monmouth 
family do to aid the sufferers? They were watched on 
every side. Mr. Monmouth had been imprisoned once, and 
Wolsey had released him; but Sir Thomas More was a 
chancellor of another sort, and if he should be sent by him 


192 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


to the Tower there might be no escape save by burning. 
Christopher was at liberty by sufferance, and should he be 
detected violating any of the unjust laws against the Re- 
formers probably no mercy would be shown him. Hal had 
braved Sir Thomas More to his face, and Gripe was abroad, 
formerly employed by Wolsey in his persecutions, but at 
present serving his more merciless successor, obeying the 
most cruel orders to the letter, and never losing the scent 
of heretics if once on their track. 

There was a pious, simple-hearted musician — his nam.e 
was Robert Larnbe — who wanted to do good with the 
talent God had given him ; and so he went about with his 
harp, singing and playing a hymn in favor of Martin Luther 
and the Reformation. If it had been one of the dissolute 
songs of the times. Sir Thomas More — that lover of 
music — and Stokesly, Bishop of London, would not have 
put a straw in his way; but they could not allow him to 
sing and play such a hymn as this, and they sent him to 
jail.* Edith had often welcomed him to her father’s house, 
and given him money ; but now he was beyond the reach of 
her kindness. There was a godly, quick-witted young 
painter, Edward Freese, who desired to improve every 
opportunity for usefulness, and who therefore wrote on the 
borders of some hangings he was painting in a house certain 
passages of Scripture. This came to the ears of such a 
lover of Scripture as Sir Thomas More, and such a preacher 
of it as Stokesly, Bishop of London, and he was thrown into 
prison in the bishop’s palace, where he was fed for the most 
part with bread made of sa^vdust. His wife, coming to 
see him, was treated with such monstrous inhumanity by the 
bishop’s porter as to kill her unborn infant and cause her 
own death soon after. He himself, in consequence of this 
and of the inhuman treatment he received when removed 
to Lollards’ Tower, became hopelessly insane.f The poor 
man had painted the hangings in Edith’s chamber, leaving 
on their borders some precious Scripture passages. How 

* Fox, vol. ii., p. 264. t Fox, vol. ii., p. 244. 


TEBEOE. 


193 


her heart bled for him, and how she longed to whisper some 
of them in his ear; but no, that simple office was denied 
her. There was a conscientious, modest schoolmaster, 
Thomas Bennet by name, who, prompted by righteous zeal, 
had caused to be fastened to the cathedral gates at Exeter 
some placards containing Reformatory sentiments, and for 
this he was burnt at the stake. Sir Thomas More sending 
the orders with the utmost speed.* Thomas Bennet, with 
other students, had sat at Mr. Monmouth’s table. He had 
been one of many who was converted at Cambridge by the 
preaching of Bilney. Edith remembered his earnest face, 
and when she heard of his firmness and his triumphant 
death, she said, “The enemy cannot surely accuse us of 
cowardice now.” 

Sir Thomas More and Stokesly wreaked their vengeance 
on all classes. John Petit, who had represented London in 
parliament for twenty years, — a learned, an eloquent, and 
a very influential member, — was sent to the Tower by Sir 
Thomas More for being a warm and generous friend of the 
Reformation. His imprisonment, witli the cruel treatment 
he received, finally caused his death. Few persons in Lon- 
don were so highly esteemed as he. Many houses were 
searched for books. Mr. Monmouth’s family lived in con- 
stant fear and dread of a visitation from Sir Thomas. Edith 
could not leave the house without having her footsteps 
dogged by Gripe. Her father now forbade her going out 
on benevolent errands. The Brethren were either in prison, 
or had been burned at the stake, or were here and there in 
hiding-places. 1530 had been a dark year; but 1531 was a 
darker one, especially in its autumn. First came the mar- 
tyrdom of Thomas Bilney, the father of the Reformation 
in the universities. His former timidity had given place to 
a courage which enabled him to preach publicly the truths 
he had twice denied, to receive his sentence of condemnation 
with cheerfulness and serenity, and to keep his constancy 
amid his dreadful sufferings at the stake. He experienced 

* Fox, vol. ii, pp. 267-260. 


194 


THE BOY-LOLLAUD. 


the truthfulness of these words of Scripture : — “Fear not, for 
I have redeemed thee, and called thee by thy name, thou 
art mine ; when thou passest through the waters, I will be 
with thee ; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow 
thee ; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be 
burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.” If, dear 
reader, you will visit Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, 
you will tliere see his Bible, having this passage marked 
with a pen in the margin. Did Sir Thomas More approve 
of the treatment which this excellent man received ? After 
his arrest, a writ to burn him was speedily procured from 
the chancellor. The case seemed to him so simple and 
flagrant that he made, it is said, the joking remark, “Burn 
him first, and procure a writ afterwards.”* Nor did the 
enmity of Sir Thomas toward Bilney cease after the cruel 
death of the latter, if, as is stated, he circulated a report 
that the martyr recanted at the last. He probably justi- 
fied himself on the ground that it was a pious fraud ; t 
or he may have remembered and exemplified a remark his 
friend Erasmus once made, that “ for the vulgar a lie might 
be as good as truth, and often better.” t 

Soon after the martyrdom of Thomas Bilney followed 
that of Richard Bayfield, a priest. He had been foremost 
in circulating Tyndale’s and Frith’s books, having made 
four voyages to obtain them during the previous five years. 
John Tewksbury, a leather merchant of London, who had 
been converted by reading Tyndale’s New Testament, and 
“Wicked Mammon,” and possessed the Bible in manuscript, 
succeeded Bayfield at the stake ere long ; but not before he 
had been barbarously handled by his persecutors. It is 
said that he was taken to Sir Thomas More’s beautiful gar- 
den, and whipped at the famous “ Jesus’ tree,” or “ tree of 
troth.” He refused to recant at first, but afterward yielded. 
Before the close of the year, however, he made a good con- 
fession, firmly adhering to it in the fire. 

* Fox, vol. ii, p. 228. t Southey’s “ Common Place Book,” p. 68. 

t Froude’s “Short Studies on Great Subjects,” “Times of Erasmus and 
Luther.” 


terror: 


195 


Tlie next year had not oj^ened when James Bainham, a 
lawyer, a daily student of the Scriptures, who had married 
the widow of Simon Fish — the author of “ The Supplication 
of the Beggars ” — was (as we are told) by More’s order 
whipped at this same “tree of troth,” and then sent to 
the Tower, Sir Thomas standing over him while he was 
racked. He was induced to make a modified recantation 
and then released ; but afterward expressing his sorrow 
publicly for what he had done, he Avas again apprehended, 
and, as he could not be persuaded to recreancy a second 
time, was burned April 30, 1532. 

These men were friends of the Monmouth family. Many 
others, some of whom they knew, suffered the same fate, or 
languished in prison. The mild philosopher at Chelsea was 
indeed transformed into a savage. In his house, it was 
reported, there was a prison, where lovers of the Gospel 
were confined. He hunted them down like wild beasts. 
He Avent even beyond the law against them, which itself 
was most cruel, not allowing them the benefit of some of its 
provisions.* If all reports of his treatment of them Avere 
not true, — he condescended to deny some of them, — yet 
Henry’s court did not contain a more bitter enemy. Hal 
now Avas convinced of this fact by Avhat came under his 
own observation. 

The chancellor, having spent several days at home en- 
gaged in religious exercises, the king Avished to see him ; 
and as Hal happened to be at court on a visit to Master 
Horton, he was commissioned to bear to him the royal 
message. His reception Avas kindly on the part of William 
Roper and Margaret, cool on the part of Sir Thomas, Avhile 
Lady More exclaimed, “ Heyday ! our runaway hath come 

back in fine feather ! Had I my way ” But she was 

checked by Sir Thomas’s quietly remarking, as he opened a 
letter Hal had put into his hand, “ ’Tis from the king,” and 
she became even gracious. The fool capered about Avith 
demonstrations of delight. As it Avas time for dinner Hal 

“ Froude’s “ England,” vol. ii, p. 80. 


196 


THE BOY-LOLLAUI). 


sat at the table amongst the guests. Father Forest and 
many other ecclesiastics were present. Soon the Lutherans, 
as they were called, became the subject of conversation, 
the tone of which had waxed more bitter since the young 
man was with them last. He noticed that the faces of 
some around him had changed sadly. Those of Sir Thomas 
More and Margaret, having become even more alike, had 
almost lost their amiableness in the shadow that had spread 
over the whole countenance. That of William Roper had 
assumed a sour expression in place of its good-natured and 
benevolent one; and the fool’s had grown thinner and 
more wrinkled, and was nearer his plate, as if trying to 
solve a problem every day more difficult. Father Forest’s 
voice had made no advance in respect to loudness or harsh- 
ness, since that was impossible. It was heard on this 
occasion, of course, especially in commendation of an epi- 
taph which Sir Thomas had written for his own tombstone, 
quoting the words, '•\furibus et homicicUs Jicereticisque mo- 
lestus?'* The fool jerked up his head. “Wilt write my 
epitaph in Latin, Sir Thomas?” he asked. 

“If thou givest a good reason for it, fool,” his master 
replied ; “so tell me why.” 

“Nearly all passing by,” said the fool, “will not under- 
stand it, sith it is Latin, and so will not know all the bad 
things thou tellest about me ; and yet it will honor me as 
much as thine will thee, methinks. Is not the word for fool 
a grand word ? ” 

“Thou wouldst sail to posthumous renown,” said Sir 
Thomas, laughing, “ under false colors. I would hereafter 
be known as I am. Thou mayst write my epitaph, fool, in 
English. What wilt thou say about me ? ” 

“The fool ducked his head repeatedly as he replied, 
“Thou wast admired and worshiped for thy books and thy 
sayings; thou wast loved and cherished for thy gifts and 
thy courtesies ; and eke thou wast feared and hated for thy 
whips and thy fagots.” The fool ended with his puckered 
brow close to his plate, where it remained ; for the contra- 


TEBBOB. 197 

dictory elements in his master’s character constituted the 
problem he was trying vainly to solve. 

Sir Thomas looked at him with some amazement, and 
almost suspicion. “Thou hast spoken wisely for the nonce. 
Did I not know thee as a fool, I might deem thee one of 
the heretics who, meseems, are knaves rather than fools.” 
Then, turning to the company, he continued : “ I desire to 
be feared and hated by some men. That which I profess 
in my epitaph, that I have been troublesome to heretics, I 
have done it with a little ambition ; for I so hate these kind 
of men that I would be their sorest enemy that possibly 
they/ could have if they will not repent, for I find them such 
men, and so to increase every day, that I even greatly fear 
the world will be undone by them.”* There was applause 
from the ecclesiastics at the table, and the host went on : 
“The clergy doth denounce them, and as they be well wor- 
thy, the temporalty doth burn them ; and after the fire of 
Srnithfield hell doth receive them, where the wretches 
burn forever.” t 

The fool gave a shriek, and, as Sir Thomas looked angrily 
at him, fled from the hall. 

A gentleman present, who had been with-Erasmus recently, 
declared that this learned scholar and friend of the host 
agreed with him in his treatment of heretics, and that he 
heard him make the jocular remark, “I hope Lollardism or 
persecution will stop before winter, as it raises the price of 
firewood so much.” t Hal was shocked. This from one 
whose Latin Hew Testament and whose writings had been 
a source of strength to these same heretics. Hal, soon after 
dinner, was as glad to escape from Sir Thomas More’s house 
as when he leaped through the window. 

A few of the Brethren now appeared at Mr. Monmouth’s, 
coming and going in the night. They always brought news, 
most of it of a distressing nature. At length word came 

♦ More’s “Life of More,” p. 268. 

t “ The London Quarterly Review,” 'No. cclxxxv, for January, 1877, p. 13. 

t Froude’s “Short Studies on Great Subjects.” “Times of Erasmus and 
Luther,” 


198 


THE BOY-LOLLARB. 


that a company of them, headed by Dick Braynton, were 
hiding on the island, having found a new way of access 
to it. Gripe, with a band of men, were in the woods in the 
vicinity, supposing they were concealed in them somewhere, 
though not on the island, as they had for a long time kept 
watch of the only path that led to it. The Brethren dared not 
leave, and were in a starving condition. Hal at once offered 
to go there by the secret passage, carrying with him provi- 
sions. 

“ I am fleet,” he said ; “ my early gypsy training will 
serve me. I outran Gripe once, and can do it again.” 

“Ay,” said Christopher; “but he found thee at last, and 
will again. He is under Sir Thomas More now, and not 
Cardinal Wolsey. An he put that hand on thee a second 
time no Sir George Templeton will save thee.” 

“I shall not give him the opportunity,” replied Hal. 
“ Trust me, I shall be able to get to them with food, and 
return. I am gypsy enow for that.” 

As Hal persisted, Mr. Monmouth at length gave an un- 
willing consent. 

Starting in the darkness of night, he made his way as 
rapidly as he could until he came to the woods, when he 
stole noiselessly along. As he neared the island he was 
conscious of there being persons not far from him. But he 
was fortunate in eluding them, and dragged himself to the 
place of refuge, though, owing to the provisions he had 
with him, his progress was much slower than before. He 
was received with great joy by Dick and his men, a few of 
whom w^ere the same whom Hal saw there before. 

After a short prayer offered by Dick, Hal started to re- 
turn. While in the woods he was pursued, though not by 
Gripe ; but he escaped, and arrived at Mr. Monmouth’s in 
safety. Subsequently Hal succeeded thrice in carrying pro- 
visions and returning, though each time narrowly escaping 
capture. He found no difficulty in visiting the island a 
fourth time, as Sir Thomas More had resigned his chancel- 
lorship, and Gripe and his band had left the \yoods. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


MONKS AND COURT REFORMERS. 


Strip Francis from his tatter’d Cowl, all nak’d, and you shall see 
He that ev’n now St. Francis was to Christ will turned be : 
Again, put Francis’ Coat and Cowl on Christ, and [mark the liar] 
He that ev’n now was Jesus Christ will Francis be the Friar. 


Translated from the Latin verse of Turseline the Jesuit. 



IR THOMAS MORE resigned his chancellorship May 


^ 16, 1532. For a year and several months Hal had been 
an inmate of the Monmouth family. During this time he 
and Edith carefully read together the Gospels in the original, 
comparing their own translation with Tyndale’s and Wick- 
liffe’s. As would naturally be supposed there was an 
increasing attachment between them ; but while on the part 
of Edith it was frank and sisterly, on that of Hal it was 
reserved and constrained. The cloud hanging over his birtli 
embarrassed him even in reciprocating the affection sho 
showed him ; and he considered it the height of meanness 
and audacity to take advantage of the intimacy he had in 
being her teacher — for she persisted in calling him thus — 
to address her in the style of the court gallants who sought 
her smiles. He had been able to learn nothing concerning 
the gypsies, though he had made inquiries far and near, and 
had about come to the conclusion that they had left the 
country, as they were required to do by the statute of 1531. 

Hal had sung in the royal chapel almost every Sunday 
since he had left the court. He had always been a favorite 
singer of the king, and especially of Lady Anne ; and, 
according to command, he performed his part not only at 
York Place, but at the palaces at Windsor and Greenwich. 
The plain tiveijess of Hal’s voice was always impressive, but 


200 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


especially when j^ersecution raged most furiously. On the 
Sunday after Thomas Bilney’s martyrdom it became almost 
a wailing cry. And on the Sundays after the martyrdoms 
of Richard Bayfield, John Tewksbury, and James Bainham, 
its pathetic plaint rang through the chapel. The grand 
strains it sung of the power, of the majesty, of the love, 
of the justice, of the mercy, of the faithfulness of God 
seemed to be an almost despairing appeal to take the 
side of the cause of righteousness and truth, now mocked, 
abused, crushed ; an appeal at times apjiu-oaching the 
lament of Calvary — “My God, my God, why hast thou 
forsaken me.” The enemies of the Reformation listened, 
and gnashed their teeth in impotent rage. For what 
could they do ? Was not that voice singing the very words 
that had been consecrated by use, some of them comj 30 sed 
by the king himself ? The friends of the Reformation 
listened, and were pleased ; though their consciences re- 
proved them, and prompted them for the time to a nobler 
life. Latimer regretted his humiliating concessions ; Cran- 
mer his timid compromises ; Cromwell his politic self-seek- 
ing ; and Lady Anne her vanity and ambition. She thought 
of her pious resolutions and prayers at Hever Castle, and 
longed to be as innocent as she was there. Master Horton 
did not move a muscle of his face ; and yet he was seen now 
and then to brush hastily away something that looked like a 
tear. What multitudes there were at court, and every- 
where, of the friends of the Reformation, who, like Mcode- 
mus, came to Jesus by night. The effect of Hal’s voice 
upon Latimer and Cranmer and others like them who after- 
wards witnessed a noble confession at the stake can never 
be told. How much we owe to such influences, and how 
little we speak of them ! As to the king, being a lover of 
musical genius, he naturally admired it in Hal ; but the voice 
of the singer did not move lum as it did the friends of the 
Reformation. He was at heart a Catholic; besides, his 
treatment of the queen, and indeed of those who in any 
way hindered him from doing as he pleased, had seared his 


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MONKS AND COURT REFORMERS 


201 


moral sense. When, some time before, the sweating sick- 
ness broke out, and he feared he was going to die, he dis- 
missed Lady Anne and was reunited to tlie queen.* When 
he thought he was out of danger his intimacy with the one 
and his estrangement from the other were renewed. Ever 
since the middle of July, 1531, he had openly separated from 
his wife and compelled her to drag out a broken-hearted 
existence away from the court. If conscience had some- 
thing to do with Henry’s plans for a divorce at first, he did 
not proceed far before passion got the mastery of him. More- 
over he determined not only to renounce the pope but to 
make himself spiritual head of the church instead. This had 
been suggested to him by the politic Cromwell ; and it suited 
— not his conscience, which may have sometimes spoken as 
the voice of God in his soul, nor those theological instructors 
under whom it had been trained, but — his imperious will. 
Probably the king had not been much disturbed by the 
martyrdoms of late, and Hal’s voice had not for him any 
special call to repentance. He must have understood its 
significance however ; but, as he liked sincerity and courage, 
he was not displeased. 

The court had been for some time at Greenwich Palace. 
Occasionally a friar belonging to the monastery close by 
officiated in the royal chapel ; and as this was an age when 
preachers used free speech to kings, Henry received some 
sharp admonitions in reference to the divorce. Lady Anne 
winced ; but the king preserved a dignified self-control and 
apparent indifference. The inmates of Greenwich monastery 
warmly espoused the cause of the queen ; as was natural, 
since she was herself a member of tlieir order, had often 
mingled her nightly devotions with theirs, and admitted 
Father Forest, their warden, to her intimacy. But Lady 
Anne tried upon them her matchless powers of pleasing, 
and not without success. She was unable, however, to 
protect those who could not withstand her charms. Father 
Forest imprisoned one of them. He sought to expel 

* D’Aubign^’s “ History of the Reformation,” vol. v, p. 375. 


202 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


another, and then preached a violent sermon against the 
king and Cromwell at Paul’s Cross. 

The first day of May in 1532 was observed as the great 
holiday of the year. It came on Sunday. A brilliant com- 
pany crowded the royal chapel. There were the majestic 
king, the gorgeous nobles, and the beautiful ladies of his 
court, — amongst the latter Lady Anne Boleyn, conspicuous 
for her beauty, as well as her dress and jewels. Hal’s sing- 
ing was simple, natural, spontaneous, like a stream bursting 
forth from a living fountain, or like the gushing melodies of 
birds. Its plaintiveness was exchanged for a cheery hope- 
fulness. The divine attributes were on the side of truth, 
which, though crushed to earth, was to rise again and con- 
quer its opponent, error. The differing feelings of the au- 
ditors were written on their faces ; but none were more 
expressive than the scowling faces of the monks. One of 
them preached. Father Peto, afterwards cardinal. His 
text was, 1 Kings, xxi. 19: “Where the dogs licked the 
blood of Naboth, even there shall they lick thy blood, O 
king.” 

He described the wickedness of Ahab. He pictured 
the scene in the court of Heaven, when a spirit was 
commissioned to be a lying spirit in the mouth of the 
prophets to persuade Ahab to fight the fatal battle with the 
King of Syria at Ramoth Gilead. He then spoke of the four 
Imndred lying prophets, just before the battle, directing 
him to engage in it, and assuring him of victory, and closed 
by personating Micaiah, the true prophet, who foretold its 
disastrous result. Turning directly to Henry, he said : — 

“And now, O king, hear what I say to thee. I am that 
Micaiah, whom thou wilt hate because I must tell thee truly 
that this marriage is unlawful ; and I know that I shall eat 
the bread of affliction, and drink the waters of sorrow ; yet 
because the Lord hath put it in my mouth I must speak it. 
There are other preachers, yea, too many, which preach to 
persuade thee otherwise, feeding thy folly and frail affec- 
tions upon hopes of their own worldly promotion ; and by 


MONKS AND COURT REFORMERS. 


203 


that means they betray thy soul, thy honor, and thy pos- 
terity, to obtain fat benefices, to become rich abbots and 
bishops, and I know not what. These, I say, are the four 
hundred prophets who, in the spirit of lying, seek to de- 
ceive thee. Take heed lest tliou, being seduced, find Ahab’s 
punishment, who had his blood licked up by the dogs.” 

At these audacious words many belonging to both parties 
held their breath. There was a storm on the usually sun- 
shiny face of Lady Anne, that, if it had visited the speaker, 
would have annihilated him. Frowns distorted the faces of 
her fair maids-of-honor. The faces of the courtiers gath- 
ered blackness. Pale and frightened faces there were, and 
faces expressive of secret joy and triumph. All stole 
glances at the king from the corners of their eyes, for 
Henry would not endure any curious gazing or staring at 
him. But of all that company he was the only one appar- 
ently unmoved. He loved English pluck, and perhaps 
thought he deserved some castigation, and would not hinder 
the monk from doing his entire duty. When Hal sung 
after the sermon his voice trembled, but as he proceeded it 
gained firmness, and breathed a glad expectancy and un- 
swerving loyalty. The sentiment of the music was loyalty 
to the King of kings. As Hal poured forth its strains he 
looked with his clear, honest eyes full upon Henry, and the 
interpretation was obvious to all. If loyal to the King of 
kings they must be loyal to his vice-regent ; for in that age 
there was a divinity that hedged a king, and his person 
was regarded as sacred, do what he would. 

On the following Sunday there was the same buoyancy in 
the melody that flowed from Hal’s lips. Dr. Kirwan 
preached. He endeavored to answer Father Peto, who, 
however, was absent. He called him dog, slanderer, base, 
beggarly friar, rebel, and traitor ; he declared that no 
subject should speak so audaciously to his prince as he had 
done ; he “commended ” the intended marriage of the king, 
“ thereby to establish his seed in his seat forever ; ” and he 
began to conclude by addressing his antagonist: — 


204 


THE BOY-LOLLAED. 


“ I speak to thee, Peto, to thee, Peto, which makest thy- 
self Micaiah, that thou mayest speak evil of kings ; but now 
art thou not to be found, being fled for fear and shame, as 
unable to answer my argument.” 

Here, however, he was interrupted by a voice which 
came from the rood-loft, — a voice belonging to another 
friar, by the name of Elstowe. “ Good sir,” it said, “ you 
know Father Peto is gone to Canterbury to a provincial 
council, and not fled for fear of you ; for to-morrow he will 
return again. In the meantime I am hei’e as another Mica- 
iah, and will lay down my life to prove those things true 
which he hath taught. And to this combat I challenge 
thee ; thee, Kirwan, I say, who art one of the four hundred 
into whom the spirit of lying is entered ; and thou seekest 
by adultery to establish the succession, betraying thy king 
for thy own vain glory into endless perdition.” 

The feelings of the audience were now excited to a high 
pitch. Confusion followed, which was only repressed by 
the king himself arising from his seat and commanding 
silence. Hal’s singing was like pouring oil upon the troubled 
waters. On the next day the council summoned Peto and 
Elstowe before them and. gave them a reprimand. “Ye 
deserve to be sewn into a sack and thrown into the Thames,” 
said Lord Essex, wrathfully. 

“Threaten such things to rich and dainty folk, which 
have their hope in this world,” was Elstowe’s defiant reply, 
“ we fear them not ; with thanks to God, we know the way 
to heaven to be as ready by water as by land.” 

They were banished from the country. The imprisoned 
brother dying not long after in very suspicious circum- 
stances, the king ordered an investigation, though nothing 
came from it ; and the warden. Father Forest, was deposed, 
and the Order itself was ere long dissolved.* 

Eight days after the meeting in the royal chapel just 
described, the reason of the new hopefulness of Hal’s voice 

* For account of these scenes in royal chapel see Froude’s “ History of Eng- 
land,” vol. i. pp. 348-351. 


MONKS AND COUBT BEFOBMERS. 205 

became apparent. Sir Thomas More resigned. Certain 
indications had suggested it to the singer. 

But with the resignation of Sir Thomas More persecution 
did not cease. Indeed he himself kept at his nefarious 
work. Edith Monmouth could not commence again her 
ministrations of love. Christopher w’as most of the time at 
Antwerp, engaged in his father’s business. It was not 
thought safe for him to remain in London. The Brethren, 
known to be such, who dwelt in London, had either been 
burned at the stake, or were pining away in dungeons, or 
had fled to remote parts, or, having saved their lives by 
recantation, could be seen occasionally slinking through the 
streets, with fagots painted on their sleeves, their heads 
bowed with shame, the general mark of scorn and derision. 
Gripe was still everywhere except near the island. Strange 
to say, he had given up his search in that vicinity, probably 
sup2)osing that none of the fugitives would dare to hide so 
near London, in a place that had come to be so well known. 
Dick Braynton and a few men still remained concealed 
there, not daring to venture forth, since, in case they did, 
Gripe would be sure to be on their track, and then woe be 
to them ! And yet they would run the risk were it not 
for Hal. In the darkness of night he often started with 
provisions, stole to them and back without being observed. 
He became more and more interested in this stout yeoman, 
with whom he held brief but pleasant interviews. Dick 
Braynton was a genuine Lollard, and an intelligent one. 
He had but little love for court reformers. He disapproved 
of Lady Anne’s course, though he appreciated her good 
qualities. He was thoroughly loyal to the king, and yet he 
did not acknowledge him, or any other being but Christ, 
to be his spiritual head. He abhorred compromises. He 
believed that only those who had been called Wickliflites or 
Lollards in the past, and were their true successors in the 
present, could save England ; that though they were few 
at that time, they were destined to increase until they 
would control the land. To us, who have read about the 


206 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


Independents of an after period, he seems almost gifted 
with prescience; but to many of the then reformers he was 
somewhat of a visionary, though they admired his sturdy 
character. 

Dick often spoke of the resemblance which Hal bore to 
Lady Montague, his mistress, and at length gave him the 
following particulars of the Montague family. Her hus- 
band, Lord Montague, had been intimate with the king in boy- 
hood. He married soon after Henry wedded Catherine, and 
he and his lady were often seen at court. The early fruit of 
their union was a beautiful boy. St. Albans was at that time 
infested by thieves, some of whom, having been captured by 
Lord Montague, were taken to London and hung. Others, 
out of revenge, murdered his child with a female ser- 
vant, she having taken him out for an airing not far 
from the Montague mansion. Lord Montague and lady 
were inconsolable over the loss of their only offspring. His 
‘ lordship was for several years employed by Wolsey on for- 
eign embassies, from one of which his anxious lady, who 
kept secluded at St. Albans, waited vainly for his return. 
At length, a Spanish nobleman who had been known to 
them for several years, and who was a favorite of Catherine, 
came bearing dreadful news. He said that he had just 
returned from Germany, where he met Lord Montague ; 
that they traveled together for a while, when they were 
suddenly attacked in a lonely spot. Lord Montague and his 
servant killed, and himself and servant wounded, though 
they managed to escape. The poor lady’s cup was now full. 
Soon after she left for Antwerp, and lived in the family of 
a brother of Lord Montague. 

“ And was Lord Montague a lover of the Gospel, like his 
lady?” asked Hal. 

“Ay,” was the reply; “my master heard Colet lecture at 
Oxford, and read the books of Erasmus, and my sweet mis- 
tress secretly helped liiin in the study of Wickliffe’s Bible. 
The papists hated them, and questionless would have burned 
them but for the protection of the king, or mayhap of Wolsey. 


MONKS AND COURT REFORMERS. 207 

“ Meaneth Lady Montague never to return in the better 
times to come ? ” asked Hal. 

“ My sweet mistress,” replied Dick, “ will return eftsoons, 
an she clingeth not to the hope that her husband is yet 
alive. For on her questioning the nobleman’s servant alone 
he became confused, and his story was not in all respects 
like his master’s. She then suspected that the Spaniard, 
whom she liketh not, and who is a very j^apist, though call- 
ing himself a friend of Protestants, had betrayed him to 
his enemies, of whom there were many enow everywhere, who 
may have thrust him into some prison. On that account she 
hath remained in Antwerp till now, making through Lord 
Montague’s brother what diligent search she can in many 
parts of Germany. But in vain, as we all feared.” 

“ Alas ! ” exclaimed Hal, “ how much the poor lady must 
have suffered through all these years ! ” 

“Ay,” said Dick. “Nathless, her sorrow is not selfish as 
many lovers of the Gospel in Antwerp can testify. She 
.with the lady of Lord Montague’s brother hath done much 
for them.” 

Dick also informed Hal that he had been the head servant 
of Lord Montague; that several years before that noble- 
man’s disappearance he and his wife were thrust into a 
dungeon. Jack being then a baby in her arms; thaf his 
wife soon died in consequence ; and he himself, taking Jack 
with him, managed to escape, or they also would soon have 
fallen a prey to the horrors of the place. 

In the autumn of 1532 Mr. John Frith was a prisoner in 
the Tower. Perhaps the resignation of the chancellor led 
him to suppose that he could safely visit England. Wo 
remember how much this young man of brilliant talents 
and amiable manners had interested the Monmouth family, 
and endeared himself to them, years before. Their hearts 
sunk within them when they heard that he had fallen into 
the hands of Sir Thomas More. But Mr. Monmouth, and 
Christopher — who was at home temporarily — soon ex- 
pressed themselves in a hopeful manner. “Sir Thomas,” 


208 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


they said, “ was no longer chancellor, and Cromwell had suc- 
ceeded Wolsey as tlie king’s confidential adviser, Cranmer 
had pleased the king and was one of the royal chaplains, 
and was about to be Archbishoj) of Canterbury, and Lady 
Anne was sure to be queen. These three would save Master 
Frith from the fate of Master Bilney.” Mrs. Monmouth and 
Edith, however, looked anxious, especially as the months 
came and went with Master Frith still in the Tower, and 
determined not to make the least compromise with his op- 
ponents, and not to do the least act that would reflect upon 
the good cause. But Dick Braynton was even less ho])eful 
than the ladies. 

“There must be yielding,” he said, “on one side or the 
other, that Master Frith may be released. That there will 
be no yielding on his side I feel well nigh sure, and that 
there will be none on the side of Sir Thomas More we have 
already learned.” As to Hal himself his acquaintance with 
the court — at present more intimate than it had ever been — 
led him to fear the worst. He saw that the court Reformers 
were seeking their own ends, and that there was an essential 
difference between them and the Brethren. The early plain- 
tiveness returned to his voice ; and yet the element of glad- 
ness, which of late had found a place in it, was not wholly 
banfehed. It could not be, since Lady Anne’s charms, 
with her condescending notice and winning smiles, touched 
his susceptible nature ; and led him to see in her a 
friend of the Reformation, who, on becoming queen, would 
be known as such. When, one Sunday morning, he heard 
it whispered that the king had been secretly married to 
her during the past week — this step was taken January 25, 
1533 — his voice rang out joyfully like a marriage bell; 
and the beautiful bride and queen — though not yet pub- 
licly acknowledged — smiled upon him more sweetly than 
ever. Afterward, the prettiest of her maids-of-honor. 
Lady Lilly Hunsdon, slipped into his hand a costly 
jewel. 

May 28, 1533, — the king’s marriage with Catherine having 



STREET NEAR WESTMINISTPRl ABBEY, 
CORONATION of ANNE BOLEYN. (Page 209) 




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MONKS AND COUNT REFORMERS. 


209 


been lately declared null and void by an ecclesiastical court, 
— Anne Boleyn passed through the streets of London pub- 
licly recognized as queen, to be crowned, June 1, in West- 
minster Abbey. In a white chariot drawn by two palfreys 
covered with white damask, over which was borne a golden 
canopy with silver bells, she sat in all her loveliness, with a 
coronet of gold and diamonds upon her brow, her hair flow- 
ing unbound behind her, the object of acclamations and 
benedictions from thousands and tens of thousands. All 
read happiness for England in that dear, kindly face. Hal 
stood near a group of children who were dressed in white, 
and, as she drew near, commenced singing a song of welcome. 
The chariot stopped, and all sounds in the vicinity were 
hushed. The joyful strain was carried by Hal’s distinct and 
honest utterance to the ears and hearts of the new queen 
and her subjects. But when the voices of the children 
joined in the chorus she shed tears, and there was not a dry 
eye in the crowd. As the song ceased she beckoned him to 
come to her. He did so, throwing himself upon his knees, 
and kissing the hand held out to him, while all loudly ap- 
plauded his graceful loyalty. 

“ I must beg. Master Hal,” she said, “ for a copy of these 
verses. I trow they are thine own.” 

Hal complied, putting also in her hand a letter -which that 
very morning had been given him by Mr. Monmouth, who 
requested him to present it to the queen at the first oppor- 
tunity. “ It was writ,” said he, “ by a former friend of the 
queen, now immured in the tower by Sir Tliomas More for 
being a lover of the Gospel.” At this moment the children 
came up, and threw the wreaths of flowers they held in their 
hands into the chariot; and then it passed on. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


STEADFAST. 


Like as the armfed Knight, 

Appointed for the Field, 

With this World will I fight. 

And Faith shall be my Shield. 

Anne Askew. 

T hus far our hero has held fast his integrity. Very 
few young men of that corrupt age would have re- 
sisted the temptations to which he was exposed at court. 
The reputed son of Cardinal Wolsey, handsome, intellectual, 
and not without genius, his friendship was sought by sev- 
eral gay young noblemen, especially his old acquaintance, 
Sir George Templeton. He was occasionally admitted into 
the private society of the king, when the latter unbent with 
a few intimates and indulged in a vulgarity that surprised 
him. He frequently passed through the rooms and grounds 
of the royal palace, hearing conversation and witnessing 
conduct between gentlemen and ladies that shocked his 
delicacy. He sometimes, at the command of king or queen, 
entered the apartments of Anne Boleyn, whose maids-of- 
honor lavished upon him their smiles, especially Lady Lilly 
Hunsdon; but there was a freedom about them, as about 
their mistress, whom they copied, that struck him some- 
times as unseemly. For he had sat too humbly at the feet 
of Sir Thomas More, and Margaret, and Master Horton, 
those stern teachers of morals ; he had felt too deeply the 
pure life of Udith Monmouth, who, while attracting the 
nobles of the court by her beauty, awed them by her maid- 
enly modesty and dignity, so that they termed her “ the 
fair vestal ; ” he had treasured up too sacredly his brief, 

m 


STEADFAST. 


211 


dreamlike intimacy of loving communion with Lady Temple- 
ton, whom he never spoke of without calling her mother; — 
the Monmouths, to please him, giving him the name of Hal 
Templeton; — he had listened too admiringly to the Re- 
formers, even the most ignorant and extreme of them, to be 
corrupted by such influences. 

One Sunday, shortly after the coronation, Hal saw in the 
royal chapel a lady that interested him exceedingly. She 
sat next to the queen, where he had been wont to see Lady 
Lilly Hunsdon. She was in middle life, tall and elegantly 
formed, with a sweet, engaging expression of countenance, 
with thoughtful and cultured brow, honest, transparent 
eyes, and hair prematurely silvery. There was about her 
an air of despairing expectancy, coupled, however, with a 
chastened submission, and he noticed that she listened to 
his singing with the greatest attention. Ex23ecting to see 
her on the following Sunday, he was disappointed. On 
leaving the chapel. Lady Lilly Hunsdon slij^ped into his 
hand a note, in which warm thanks were expressed by the 
writer for giving her letter to the queen and thus securing 
her release. It was signed, “Eliza Montague.” Hal did 
not doubt that this was the lady stranger, and that it was 
her letter he had handed to Anne Boleyn when she was first 
publicly recognized as England’s queen. Moreover, was she 
not Hick Braynton’s mistress ? When he visited the island, 
a little while after, he showed him the letter. Hick wept 
for joy, exclaiming, “It is my loved and honored mistress. 
What would I give to see her once more and kiss her 
hand! Thou kennest, my young master,” he continued, 
“that I have loved thee, sith thou resemblest my lady, 
though thou must not think it possible that thou belongest 
to her.” 

“Hay, Hick,” replied Hal sadly, “thy warning is not 
needed, I ween. I have been said to resemble too many to 
presume such a thing, or to dream of finding my mother. 
Sir Thomas More was struck with my resemblance to a lady 
>vhom he knew ; the c^ueen noticed in me a resemblance to 


212 


THE nOY-LOLLAED. 


a friend of lier highness ; thou hast discovered that I bear a 
resemblance to the beautiful Lady Montague; and I wis 
not how many persist in beholding another resemblance.” 

Hal colored as he closed. Dick looked soberly and affec- 
tionately on him, and said, — 

“Thy parents will be revealed to thee in good time, I 
trow. Till then, — you’ll forgive me, my young master, for 
I wis what thy temptations must be in that gay court, — 
continue to make thyself worthy of them; for I opine — 
why I know not, save from what I wis of thee — they be 
lovers of the Gospel, and eke thy mother is like my sweet 
mistress.” 

Sir Thomas Audley had succeeded Sir Thomas More as 
chancellor. Though a thorough time-server, he was not 
inclined to persecution ; and the Reformers began to take 
hope, and Dick Braynton and his companions ventured 
from their hiding-place. One night he came to the Mon- 
mouth mansion, where the Brethren had met to pray for Mr. 
Frith’s release. He then told Hal that he had seen his mis- 
tress at Montague Hall, near the Abbey of St. Albans, and 
there he had found his son, whom Sir Thomas More, on 
retiring from court, had dismissed with several of his ser- 
vants. That was a remarkable meeting of the Brethren. The 
prayers offered were simple, heartfelt, touching, coming from 
the lips of men in humble life, and breathing not only the most 
ardent desires for Mr. Frith’s release, but also the deepest 
gratitude that he had been enabled to stand firm against all 
suggestions of cowardly compromise from Cromwell and 
Cranmer; that he had even refused an opportunity to escape 
which was once thrown in his way, because he thought he 
would thus injure the good cause; and especially that he 
had by his writings defended the truth even from his cell 
with such learning and wit against the eloquent sophistries 
of Sir Thomas More. And yet the abundance of tears 
shed evinced that it was a sorrowful gratitude ; for well all 
present knew that the heroism of the young man — the like 
of whom in mental character and accomplishments could 


STEADFAST, 213 

not then perhaps be found in all England — would cost him 
terrible sufferings at the stake. 

Some of the company had not seen the letter which Mr. 
Frith had written to “the faithful followers of Christ’s Gos- 
pel ” in 1532. Mr. Monmouth read it to the Brethren. It 
was comforting, encouraging, animating. “ I ever thought,” 
he writes, “and yet do think, that to walk after God’s 
Word would cost me my life at one time or another. And, 
albeit that the king’s grace should take me into his favour, 
and not to suffer the bloody Edomites to have their pleas- 
ures upon me ; yet will I not think that I am escaped, but 
that God hath only deferred it for a season, to the intent 
that I should work somewhat that he hath appointed me to 
do, and so to use me unto his glory. And I beseech all the 
faithful followers of the Lord to arm themselves with the 

same supposition He shall send a Joseph before 

you against ye shall come into Egypt; yea, he shall so pro- 
vide for you that ye shall have an hundred fathers for one, 
an hundred mothers for one, an hundred houses for one, 
and that in this life, as I have proved by experience ; and 
after this life, everlasting joy with Christ our Saviour.” * 

If the writer had been an inspired apostle his words could 
hardly have been received with more reverence. Mr. Mon- 
mouth then read a faithful letter from Master Tyndale to 
Master Frith, in which occurred this remarkable declara- 
tion : “ I call God to record against the day we shall appear 
before our Lord Jesus to give a reckoning of our doings, 
that I never altered one syllable of God’s Word against my 
conscience, nor would this day, if all that is in the earth, 
whether it be pleasure, honour, or riches, might be given 
me.” t Several of the company held a copy of Tyndale’s 
New Testament in their hands, and they pressed it to their 
bosoms, grateful that God had granted them such a priceless 
boon, — a translation from the original, which none of tlieir 
ancestors had been favored with, — and that he had raised 

* Russell’s “English and Scottish Reformers,” vol. iv, pp. 258, 259. 

t Demaus’s “ Tyndale,” p. 362. 


214 


THE BOY-LOLLABH. 


up a man of wonderful learning and courage and piety 
through whom he could bestow it. 

It was the expressed wish of the company that portions 
of the writings of Mr. Frith while he was a prisoner, in 
which he confuted Sir Thomas More, and Bishop Fisher, 
and one Rastell, convincing the last, should be read to 
them. The keenness of his argument, making the positions 
of his antagonists appear ridiculous, the sparkle of his wit, 
the readiness of his retorts, often brought a smile to those 
grave faces, and sometimes occasioned a hearty laugh. It 
was wonderful how he could have accomplished so much in 
such circumstances. In his “ Answer unto Rastell,” he 
says: “We play not on even hand; for I am in a manner 
as a man bound to a post, and cannot so well bestow me in 
my play as if I were at liberty ; for I may not have such 
books as are necessary for me, neither yet pen, ink, nor 
paper, but only secretly, so that I am in continual fe^jr both 
of the lieutenant and of my keeper, lest they should espy 
any such tiling by me; and therefore it is little marvel 
thougli the work be imj^erfect, for whensoever I hear the 
keys ring at the doors, straight all must be conveyed out of 
the way, and then if any notable thing had been in my 
mind it was clean lost.” * The rigor of his imprisonment 
was, however, somewhat relaxed afterward, and his keeper, 
“ upon condition of Ins own word and promise,” “ let him 
go at liberty during the night to consult with good men.” 
There was one passage in his answer to Sir Thomas More 
which those present received with emphatic expressions of 
api^roval : — 

“Until we see some means found by the which a reason- 
able reformation may be had on the one part, and sufficient 
instruction for the poor commoners, I assure you I neither 
will nor can cease to speak ; for the Word of God boileth in 
my body like a fervent fire, and will needs have an issue, and 
breaketh out when occasion is given. But this hath been 
offered you, is offered, and shall be offered. Grant that the 
* “Englisli and Scottish Reformers,” vol. iv, p. 242. 


STEADFAST. 


215 


Word of God — I mean the text of Scripture — may go abroad 
in our English tongue, as other nations have it in their 
tongues, and my brother, William Tyndale, and I have done, 
and will promise you to write no more. If you will not 
grant this condition, then will we be doing while we have 
breath, and show in few words that the Scripture doth in 
many, and so at the least save some.” * 

Every one in that room had risked patrons, friends, home, 
life, in the circulation of the Scriptures in the English 
tongue : every one there had thus exposed himself or herself 
— for women as well as men were gathered together — to 
death at the stake, and expected this awful fate; almost 
every one had seen loved ones, some had beheld father, 
mother, brother, sister, and even husband, wife, perishing in 
the flames because of their participation in the glorious work ; 
and the words of Frith called forth a response more hearty 
than we can conceive. Any sacrifice was not considered too 
great to put the English Bible into every Englishman’s 
hand ; the English Bible tliough it should be without note 
or comment. Some in that band believed that the end 
would be secured ; though not, perhaps, till after many more 
martyrdoms. Edith sat next to Hal. She had given no 
utterance to her feelings ; and he turned and looked inquir- 
ingly into her face. It bore that same heroism he had seen 
before. It was sublime and expressed perfect trust. 
Hal trembled. Was this awful fate to be hers — the 
beautiful Edith Monmouth’s, at whose feet several proud 
nobles had cast themselves, and vainly sought her love? 
And yet there was a wealth of affection in that gentle heart 
which some one of kindred mind might sue for and win. 
Those blue eyes had sometimes looked upon him in a way to 
excite the tenderest and purest feelings of his nature, and 
the dearest hopes which only after a strong effort he had 
mastered. Was this sweet and lovely girl to suffer such a 
doom ? He shuddered. He could not think of it in all its 
brutal details. And yet since Sir Thomas Audley had be- 

* “ Englisli and Scottish Reformers,” vol. iv, pp. 339, 340, 


216 


THE BOY-LOLLARB. 


come chancellor, and Gripe ceased to be employed, the good 
people had returned to their old homes in London, and she 
had been engaged in her former work of visiting the poor 
and suffering ones amongst them. Hal knew that she 
thereby rendered herself liable to arrest, and begged to ac- 
company her, or to do the work himself, promising to follow 
her directions to the letter if she would remain at home. 
But though the most yielding in some things in this she was 
obstinate. “ Thou knowest,” she -would say, “ that thou art 
watched, sith the enemies of the truth have had somewhat 
against thee, and art a man withal, while I am but a silly 
girl. What reck they an I whisper a few comforting words 
in the ear of the godly, and stay their fainting stomach with 
a little food and drink in the name of a ^isciple, or put in 
their hand a small piece of silver or gold? But if thou 
shouldst do it, thou, her highness’s favorite singer, and dear 
to the late cardinal, thou who hath been suspected of heresy, 
it would be disloyalty, forsooth, to holy church and the 
king.” 

But Hal’s thoughts had wandered. Dick Braynton was 
speaking upon what had been accomplished in circulating 
the Scriptures in the mother tongue. No one could speak 
more intelligently than he, since no one had done more in 
this respect than himself. How many thrilling adventures 
and hair-breadth escapes he narrated ; which, dear reader, if 
we had heard we should have held our breath ! How many 
accounts of the seizure of excellent men and women, their 
confinement in loathsome dungeons wliere not a few died in 
consequence, and even of the burning of some of them at 
the stake ; at the hearing of which we of this age, who can- 
not endure to read Fox’s “ Book of Martyrs,” would have 
thrust our fingers in our ears ! How many talcs of conver- 
sions from reading the sacred but forbidden volumes; tales 
which would have struck us with more wonder than any we 
read of at the present day ! And then he told what large 
sums of money had been expended by the bishops to buy up 
the copies, to burn them, — immense for those times ; how 


STEADFAST. 


217 


Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, had spent 66?. 9s. 4c?., 
Richard, Bishop of Norwich, offering 6?. 13s. 4c?. as his quota, 
and more if necessary ; how Bishop Tunstal had spent a great 
deal; — the money of the latter being given without his 
knowledge to Tyndale himself, who was thus enabled to 
pay his debts, improve his New Testament and print more 
copies.* He told also, that of the six thousand printed in 
1526, of the five thousand printed in 1527, of the thousands 
belonging to the following editions averaging one to a year, all 
or the greater part found their way to England, that although 
the strongest efforts had been made to get possession of the 
copies after their arrival, they were either unsuccessful, or 
when it was too late — Scripture having already done its 
work. As the wonderful story fell from the lips of Dick in 
rude and homely but significant phrase, a guiding, protect- 
ing, overruling Providence was unfolded to all j^resent as 
never before. They praised God for enabling the Brethren, 
despite apparently insuperable obstacles, to furnish so many 
of their countrymen with the Gospel printed in their own 
tongue ; and they had glimpses of a glorious future, — that 
has long since dawned upon the world, — when this same 
Gospel would be within the easy reach of all. 

It was the 4th of July, 1533. Hal awoke in the morn- 
ing with a weight at his heart. Mr. Frith had been for 
several days confined in a dungeon under the gate of New- 
gate prison, laden with as many bolts and fetters as he could 
bear. His neck was fastened with a collar of iron to a post 
so that he could neither stand upright nor stoop down ; — a 
wanton cruelty to one who had shown no disposition to at- 
tempt an escape, but the opposite. To-day he was to be led 
out of his cell, and borne to Smithfield to seal his testimony 
in the flames. After the morning meal, of which all partook 
silently, with sorrowful and downcast faces, Hal went to the 
place of martyrdom and beheld the awful scene. We will 
not look at it too closely. The spectators were better pre- 
pared for it. Amongst them were many of the Brethren, 

* Ellis’s “ Original Letters,” Third Series, vol. ii, pp. 86, 87, 88. 


218 


THE BOY-LOLLABH. 


and others evidently in sympathy with him ; a great many 
who looked upon him curiously and yet pityingly as an en- 
thusiast ; and some whose faces bore the marks of malignant 
satisfaction. 

With great patience and constancy Mr. Frith bore his 
sufferings, protracted though they were, ^ the flames being 
carried by the wind from him to his companion, a pious 
young man w'ho was tied to the same stake. 

Numerous and fervent were the petitions that went up to 
Heaven from agonized hearts in that crowd. 

“ Pray for them in no wise ; no more than you would for 
a dog ! ” shouted a savage voice. It was Dr. Cooke’s, parson 
of All-hallow’s church in Honey-lane. A thrill of horror 
ran through the spectators. But the martyr was not moved 
by it save to smile and mildly ask the Lord to forgive him. 
At that instant Mr. Frith caught the eye of a lady pres- 
ent, when his face expressed respectful and joyful recog- 
nition. Hal knew she was the lady whom he had once seen 
in the royal chapel, though disguised by a long cloak that 
covered her person. Beside her stood Dick Braynton. Hal 
also caught a glimpse of a familiar face that awed him as 
never before, and caused his heart to quiver with deep fore- 
boding. It was the calm, trusting, pure, heroic face of Edith 
Monmouth, who was seemingly unconscious of what was 
taking place before her, and swallowed up in the visions of 
glory beyond. She was leaning on her brother Christopher. 
On the other side of him stood a plump, full-faced maiden, 
whom the martyr recognized, and whose eyes seemed to 
breathe into his soul the truest sympathy and the loftiest 
courage. What aid Master Frith received from his friends 
around him to bear his sufferings ! At length, however, 
these became so intense that Hal looked away for some time. 
At length an exclamation from a person near caused him to 
look again where the confessors had stood, and he saw 
nothing but a heap of blackened ashes. 

That evening a weeping band assembled secretly at Mr. 
Monmouth’s, who read to them two letters. One was written 




1654. (Pago 219) . 


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by Mr. Frith when he was chained in the dungeon at New- 
gate, a candle being granted him.* In it he rehearses the 
articles for which he was condemned, and uses this lan- 
guage ; — 

“The cause of my death is this, — because I cannot in 
conscience abjure and swear that our prelates’ opinion of 
the sacrament (that is, that the substance of bread and wine 
is verily changed into the flesh and blood of our Saviour, 
Jesus Christ,) is an undoubted article of the faith neces- 
sary to be believed, under pain of damnation.” 

The other letter was written by Master Tyndale to Master 
Frith, but did not probably arrive in season to be given to 
him.f It was full of exhortation and encouragement to be 
steadfast. “Your cause,” he says, “is Christ’s Gospel, a 
light that must be fed with the blood of faith. The lamp 
must be dressed and snuffed daily, and that oil poured in 
every evening and morning, that the light go not out. , . . 
Remember the blasphemies of the enemies of Christ : ‘They 
find none but that will abjure rather than suffer the extrem- 
ity.’ . . . Let Bilney be a warning to you. . . . Sir, your 
wife is well content with the will of God, and would not, 
for her sake, have the glory of God hindered.” It was 
such a letter as Paul would have written to his son Tim- 
othy in similar circumstances. 

The last letter had been brought over from Antwerp by 
the maiden whom Hal saw beside Christopher on the oc- 
casion just mentioned. She was Elizabeth Loots, daughter 
of Captain Loots, — one of whom he had often heard, 
though he had never seen her before. This young lady was 
on intimate terms with the Monmouth family, especially 
Christopher and Edith. Hal found her bright, brave, 
whole-souled. She grew beautiful as she talked in an ani- 
mated manner about Master Frith and his wife, and Master 
Tyndale, and the German Reformers as well, — Luther, 

* “ English and Scottish Reformers,” vol. iv, pp. 450-456. 
t Demaus’s “I'yndale,” pp. 376, 377. It is not positively known when this let- 
ter arrived. 


220 


THE BOT-LOLLARD. 


Melanctlion, and their coadjutors. Hal marveled when he 
thought of the slow-moving Dutchman as her father. Her 
stay, however, was short, as she felt she ought to return to 
Antwerp, where were the friends of the murdered saint, 
especially his heroic wife. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AMPTHILL CASTLE 


In days of yore here Ampthill’s towers were seen, 
The mournful refuge of an injured queen; 

Here flowed her pure but unavailing tears, 

Here blinded zeal sustained her sinking years ; 

Yet freedom hence her radiant banners waved. 

And love avenged a realm by priests enslaved. 

From Katherine’s wrongs a nation’s bliss was spread. 
And Luther’s light from Henry’s lawless bed. 


Horace Walpole. 



ROMWELL had several times employed Hal on deli- 


cate missions, and had been satisfied Avith the result. 
One day, when the court Avas at York Place, he sent for the 
young man, and taking him into a private room, put in his 
hand a letter to carry to the Lady Catherine, as the discarded 
queen Avas called, at the palace at Ampthill. “Tell the 
Lady Catherine,” said CrornAvell, “ that thou bringest royal 
salutations and inquiries after her grace’s health, and make 
thyself as agreeable as thou canst, keeping thine eyes and 
ears open the whilst. Mayhap her grace Avill invite thee to 
come again. If not, make some excuse for doing so, and 
repeat thy visits often, always on the Avatch. I fear me 
some vile plot is hatching there. Much dependeth on thy 
Avisdom and secrecy. If thou doest well thou shalt be richly 
rewarded.” 

Hal, bowing low, retired. He felt pleased that a matter 
of so much consequence should be intrusted to him, although 
his nature revolted at the thought of being a spy. But he 
Avas thoroughly loyal to the king, and not unwilling to 
engage in any service necessary to sustain an authority in 
his view ordained of Heaven. Accompanied by a servant, 


221 


222 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


after a ride of over forty miles on horseback, he arrived 
at Ampthill. Having obtained refreshment at an inn, he 
proceeded alone and on foot toward the castle. It was 
a somewhat imposing structure, with two square, projecting 
towers in front, and nine other turrets at irregular distances 
around it. The entrance was through a large court, an 
oblong courtyard, and two very small courts.* He was 
surprised to see so many ecclesiastics, especially monks, as 
well as noblemen. Some of the latter were apparently of 
very high rank. As a messenger from the king’s court he 
was speedily admitted into the presence of Catherine. The 
usual hours for reception had passed, for it was late in the 
afternoon. Catherine, with her maids-of-honor around her, 
was engaged in the womanly employment of sewing. Near 
her stood Father Forest, and beside him a tall, handsome 
Spanish noble. As Hal advanced and threw himself on his 
knees, the dark features of the ex-queen were fixed upon 
him. Eagerly taking from his hand the letter and opening 
it, she uttered an exclamation of disappointment at the 
handwriting. “Had I known,” she said, in a disappointed 
tone, “that it was not from the king, I would not have 
admitted thee. Thou mayst retire.” 

Hal, rising and bowing low, proceeded to obey her, when 
she said, in a pleasanter voice, “ Stay, my good lad ; how 
fareth my lord and husband?” 

The young man again threw himself on his knees, and 
replied that the king’s health was good, and his grace would 
be glad to hear that the health of her grace was good also. 

Catherine smiled mournfully, and shook her head, saying, 
“ So would not she at whose feet thou hast oft done hom- 
age, I trow. But neither she nor her new lord will be 
troubled with me long.” Her pallid face and trembling 
form verified her words. But mastering her feelings by a 
sudden effort, her proud and distant bearing returned. It 
seemed to be too much however, for the unhappy lady 
partly fainted. One of her maids-of-honor sprang to her 

* Tinibs’s “ Abbeys,” etc., vol. ii, p. 276, 


AMPTUILL CASTLE. 


223 


assistance. She sat nearest her mistress; and Hal, on 
entering the room, had noticed that after looking upon him 
earnestly she fixed her eyes upon her work as though obliv- 
ious of his presence. She seemed familiar to him, and 
when supporting Catherine, assisted by the other maids-of- 
honor, he recognized her at once. It was Zaida, though 
greatly changed. Her form had attained a womanly matu- 
rity and grace, and she was elegantly dressed in a gown of 
crimson and purple, embroidered with gold. The indispo- 
sition of the ex-queen lasted but a few moments however, 
and she said to Father Forest and the Spanish nobleman, 
who manifested considerable concern, “Be not alarmed, 
good Father, and my Lord Duke; it is all over.” Then 
looking affectionately at Zaida, she added, “I congrat- 
ulate the Duke de Montpensier on finding a -niece in thee, 
my sweet.” 

“ I shall never cease to thank your highness for enabling 
me to make the discovery,” replied the duke, looking ad- 
miringly at Zaida. 

Catherine waived Hal’s departure, and requested a ser- 
vant to show him to a private parlor, where he was to wait 
till she should prepare a reply to the letter he had brought. 

Hal spent an half-hour by himself, Zaida, as we may sup- 
pose, being largely the subject of his thoughts. He was 
amazed at the transformation in her case. The vagrant 
gypsy girl had become a maid-of-honor to Catherine, and 
even her favorite. The daughter of a gypsy chief was 
indeed descended from a Spanish family of high nobility. 
As he thus mused the door opened and Zaida herself 
entered. Her appearance impressed him more than when 
he was in the presence. There was an artless dignity, 
almost a majesty of manner, though coupled with a sort of 
poetry of motion which she must have gained at Catherine’s 
court, that almost brought the impressible young man to his 
knees. Bowing low, he took the hand held out to him, and 
kissed it. She, however, withdrew it, and motioned to 
him to be seated. As he complied she placed herself beside 


224 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


him. An embarrassed silence ensued, for Hal hardly knew 
how to address his former gypsy friend, now changed into 
the beautiful and aristocratic maid-of-honor. He dared not 
ask an explanation. Zaida first broke the silence. Fixing 
upon him her dark eye, she put into his hand a letter, and 
said, — 

“ The queen desireth thee. Master Hal, to hand this to 
Lord Cromwell, and to say to the king that she affection- 
ately inquired after his highness’s health, and sent through 
thee her best wishes, as his ever-faithful wife and mother of 
his children, here and in Heaven.” 

“I will fulfil her grace’s commands to the letter. Mistress 
Zaida de Montpensier,” replied Hal. 

The maiden did not seem to like the formality of the 
address, and said impulsively, “ Call me Zaida, as erst thou 
didst, Hal.” 

“Now thou callest me Hal I will call thee Zaida,” he 
responded, “ and will think of thee not in this new position, 
in which I am amazed to find thee, but as my friend 
whilom.” 

The eyes that were melting with emotion began to show 
signs of weeping, but she restrained herself. Hal noticed 
for the first time that her face wore an expression of sad- 
ness, and he inquired, “Art unhappy, Zaida? Methinks 
thou art fortunate in having so kind and loving a mistress, 
and belonging to a noble family of Spain.” 

“ I thank thee, Hal, for reminding me of both,” she re- 
plied, “ though I would gladly have gone to the ends of the 
earth with my father; and never a person exchanged a 
prison for a palace so unwillingly as I. But, Hal, it is not 
for him I grieve so much as for my mother.” 

She then gave way to a burst of weeping, which was as 
wild and untamed as the winds that tossed the branches of 
the forest under whose protection she had so often dwelt. 
Hal became alarmed, and tried to soothe her. She looked 
beautiful in her transport of sorrow, but frightfully so. 
As she did not check him in his kindly approaches, he even 


AMPTHILL CASTLE. 


225 


ventured to support her and kiss her cheek. She did not 
seem displeased. When the storm had passed away lier 
haughtiness of manner w'as somewhat humbled, and he 
learned what had befallen the gypsy company. 

They had been arrested by officers of the government, 
quite a number, however, managing to escape, among whom 
were Lee and his wife. Some were hung and others cast 
into Newgate prison. Her father, her mother, and herself 
were thrust into one of its miserable cells. Her mother, 
who had been long in delicate health, soon died ; but not 
before she had put into the hand of Hearne a sealed letter, 
enjoining upon him as her dying wish to send it to Queen 
Catherine after she was gone. He complied, though igno- 
rant of its contents. It must have been written some time 
before, and was probably an account of her early life and 
of her elopement. In a little while Zaida was taken 
to Catherine’s court, and there met her uncle, Duke de 
Montpensier, her mother’s brother, who was on intimate 
terms with the queen. She was warmly welcomed by both. 
The duke, who was unmarried and the last of his family, 
took her to his heart, and made her his heir. Catherine, 
attracted by her beauty, so different from that of other 
ladies of her court, appointed her as her favorite maid-of- 
honor. As we should suppose, Zaida was ardently and 
gratefully attached to her benefactors. Father Forest, 
however, to whom, as her uncle’s friend and Catherine’s 
confessor, her religious education was intrusted, she did not 
like. A child of nature and of the woods, she chafed under 
the restraints he imposed upon her, and would have been 
tempted to escape and join her father if he had been within 
reach. The latter had indeed been released from prison, 
but only to be banished from the country for life. Hal 
gathered all this from the maiden, whose style of expression 
and manner cannot be transferred to paper, — the expression 
being a mixture of English and gypsy, the manner partaking 
partly of her new, artificial court life, and partly of her old life 
of untamed freedom. After a protracted interview he left. 


226 


TUE BOY-LOLLARD. 


In a few clays Hal paid a second visit to Ampthill castle. 
This was speedily followed by others, until he finally be- 
came a frequent visitor. Zaida’s eyes always sparkled with 
delight when she saw him. Her uncle, Duke de Montpen- 
sier, never failed to greet him with the utmost cordiality. 
He was a softly-spoken and agreeable gentleman, with less 
of dignified reserve and haughtiness of manner than was 
usual amongst his countrymen, and very intelligent withal, 
having read much and mingled with the world a great deal. 
Hal was charmed with liis conversation, and took advantage 
of every opportunity for enjoying it. The duke was well 
versed in the history and jjresent political condition of all 
the countries of Euroi^e, and was ever ready to draw from 
his vast treasures of information for the benefit of the in- 
quiring young man. But he was a strong Catholic, an enemy 
of the Reformation, and uttered his sentiments freely, though 
in a most insidious and fascinating manner. Hal listened 
with grieved feelings as he heard views which had become 
so dear to him derided, yet he was not repelled as he had 
been by similar language from others. Duke de Montpen- 
sier acknowledged that the root of the difference between 
the Catholics and the Protestants was the translation of the 
Scriptures into the language of the country, and their gen- 
eral circulation. 

“The Bible,” said he, “is the best of books when ex- 
plained by learned clerks according to traditions of holy 
church, which traditions are as truly from God as the Bible 
itself ; but it is the worst of books as interpreted by ignor- 
ant men and revilers of holy church, who make it teach 
whatever their depraved imaginations invent.” He pointed 
out the evils resulting, as he affirmed, from its universal dis- 
semination, dwelling especially upon the excesses of the 
Anabaptists and the atrocities of the peasants in Germany, 
and the horrors connected with tlie sack of Rome. He 
closed by quoting the words of John Cochloeus, which may 
be translated thus : — 

“The New Testament, translated into the vulgar tongue, 


AMP THILL CASTLE. 


227 


is in truth the food of death, the fuel of sin, the vail of 
malice, the pretext of false liberty, the protection of dis- 
obedience, the corruption of discipline, the depravity of 
morals, the termination of concord, the death of honesty, 
the wellspring of vices, the disease of virtues, the instiga- 
tion of rebellion, the milk of pride, the nourishment of con- 
tempt, the death of peace, the destruction of charity, the 
enemy of unity, the murderer of truth.” * 

De Montpensier laughed at the language as extreme and 
violent, but affirmed nevertheless that it clinched what he 
had said. Though his seductive lips and tones did not win 
over his auditor to his side, they made an impression on the 
latter he could with difficulty shake off. Even Cochloeus’s 
tirade seemed less foolish than if he had read it. 

The duke ascribed the king’s divorce from Catherine, and 
his marriage to Anne Boleyn, to the machinations of the 
Lutherans, as he termed the Reformers. It was easy 
to move Hal’s sympathies with the story of the ex- 
queen’s wrongs. Moreover, the early attachment between 
Hal and Zaida was a recommendation to Catherine’s favor, 
and she manifested it toward him in such a way as to touch 
his heart. Zaida had become so dear to the ex-queen that 
he whom the latter regarded as her accepted lover was 
always welcomed, with his handsome person and honest, 
pitying face. The gypsy maiden had become a necessity to 
the broken-hearted lady. 

She was a beautiful dancer, and had a copious fund of 
Spanish songs, which she could sing very sweetly. Many a 
lonely and sad hour she cheered with her grace and melody. 
She was even a comfort to the rigid Catholic in her devo- 
tions, though the heart of the girl was not in them, since, 
if she ever worshipped God, it was after her own untaught 
fashion in the temple of nature, and not in any of man’s 
erection. She arose with Catherine soon after midnight, 
and knelt with her on the cold stone floor of the chapel, at 
the singing of the mass ; like her she fasted and confessed 

* Demaus’s “Tyndale,” pp. 386, 387. 


228 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


to Father Forest twice a week ; to her slie often read 
aloud the legends of the saints. The maiden’s ardent, 
almost idolatrous, love for the ex-queen repressed her long- 
ings for the wild freedom of her former life. She looked 
upon her mistress with childish curiosity and awe, as the 
latter attended more strictly than ever to her Catholic 
observances, and to the fulfilment of her solemn vow on 
being admitted to the Order of St. Francis by Cardinal 
Ximenes, when not far from eleven years of age. Catherine 
then promised “ to give back all ill-gotten goods, to live in 
peace with every one, to spend her days in works of charity, 
to eat no costly food, to wear no personal gauds, to serve the 
poor and sick, to teach the ignorant, and to live in palaces 
the life she might have had to live in convent cells.” * She 
had not kept this vow ; yet now she strove to do so, but 
without finding peace, poor lady! Her life was wasting 
away from fell disease and wounded pride and cruel ingrat- 
itude. That she should take Zaida into her intimacy was 
not relished by the other maids-of-honor. They were in- 
clined to turn up their noses when the newcomer was 
placed on a level with themselves, and especially when she 
was elevated above them. They were compelled to respect 
her notwithstanding, not merely by the favor shown her by 
Catherine, but for her superior rank and wealth, to which 
she was entitled despite the taint of gypsy blood, by her 
personal attractions and her intellectual vivacity. What- 
ever was wanting in her learning was to be made up in time 
by competent instructors and native shrewdness. Many 
nobles were already at her feet, amongst them Sir George 
Templeton, who had a taste for female beauty. But let 
them beware how they treated her. She had been known 
to draw a stiletto from her bosom, upon others as well as 
himself, at aught she regarded as undue freedom. With 
Hal, however, she needed to observe no such precaution. 
She received him with almost an abandon of frankness and 
confidence, and yet she was variable in his society. There 

* Dixon’s “History of the Two Queens,” vol. ii. p. 68. 


AMPTHILL CASTLE. 


229 


were smiles, and sometimes froAvns; sunshine, and then 
tempest; bursts of tenderness, and anon of passion. Oc- 
casionally she so far forgot herself as to pour out her soul 
in the gypsy language, which thus gained new beauty and 
grace. Amused, fascinated as Hal was, he did not become 
her thrall. He was controlled, though perhaps uncon- 
sciously, by certain gentle blue eyes elsewhere. 

Leaving the castle one evening by a private way through 
the garden, he heard the sound of earnest voices near him. 
He would have pressed on without regarding them, but he 
heard the name of Zaida distinctly pronounced. A few 
high bushes concealed him from the speakers, and he 
stopped to listen. The soft and musical tones of De Mont- 
j^ensier fell upon his ear, in compliments uttered to some 
one for having indoctrinated Zaida into the Roman Catholic 
faith. The loud, harsh utterance in response was that of 
Father Forest, who received the compliments as deserved, 
and who averred that she had knelt with the queen for 
hours before the crucifix. The monk thought that she was 
in his hands to be moulded to any shape he saw fit. They 
spoke of her beauty as a bait to draw away the noblemen 
from the king’s court, though her immaculate virtue was 
admitted. The names of several of high rank were given 
who had been devoted admirers of Anne Boleyn, but now 
paid their homage to Queen Catherine solely through the 
fascinations of her favorite maid-of-honor. Amongst them 
was Sir George Templeton, since Lady Zaida de Montpen- 
sier eclipsed not only Anne Boleyn but Lady Lilly Hunsdon. 
At length his own name was spoken by the duke. 

“ Suffer a nameless boy, my lord,” inquired the other, 
“ to look at one of the proud race of the De Montpensiers ? ” 

“ Ay, ay,” replied the duke, laughing, “ as we suffer the 
moth to linger around the flame, mayhap. Or, better still, 
suppose we give him a name and title. Then, good father, 
it may not be a misalliance ; and he would make no mean 
accession to our cause.” 

“You surprise me, good my lord,” said the monk. “I 


230 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


deemed the youth no other than the son of Cardinal 
Wolsey.” 

The duke laughed again. “ I hear the king first saw the 
resemblance, but, marry, the king’s eyes are not to be trusted. 
There is no more likeness to Wolsey in this lad than there is 
beauty in Anne Boleyn. But pardon me, good father, if I 
do not at present tell even thee who this lad is.” 

“ By your leave, good my lord,” exclaimed Father Forest, 
“ tell it to no one until thou hast rescued him from the wiles 
of that wicked woman and from heresy. Thou mayst rescue 
him from the former ; but from what I know of the lad, I 
misdoubt an thou wilt from the latter.” 

“Misdoubt it not, good father,” replied the duke, “with 
the aid of the beautiful damsel whom thou art training.” 

The speakers changed the subject of their conversation, 
and their voices sunk to a whisper so that Hal could hear but 
little of what they said. He gathered, however, enough to 
lead him to the belief that a plot had been laid to unseat 
Henry from his throne and place his daughter Mary upon 
it. There was already a widespread disaffection, which 
had been fanned by monks traveling through the country. 
This was headed by several nobles of high rank. In due 
time Charles V. was to come to England and join his forces 
with what might be raised there. Then the end would be 
secured. 

The nobleman and monk left. Hal stood rooted to the 
spot. He had been swayed by a variety of emotions ; — in- 
dignation, disgust, the most intense curiosity, alarm, and even 
horror. He awoke from a pleasant but delusive dream. He 
began to see the character of one in whom he had placed un- 
bounded confidence. He saw the snare that had been laid 
for him.. He had a duty to perforin to the king. The duke 
then knew of his parentage. How could he have learned it? 
From Zaida? But she had assured him that she knew 
nothing about it. He sent up a silent prayer to Heaven for 
help, and with a look of determination on his face hurried 
from the garden. 


AMPTHILL CASTLE. 


231 


On the next day Hal and Edith Monmouth were seated in 
the library, with the Scripture translations of Tyndale and 
Wickliffe before them, and also a Greek dictionary and the 
works of several Greek authors scattered about upon the 
table. Hal was comparing the meaning of a certain word as 
used by the sacred writers and as employed by the classic. 
Edith, who appreciated his fine attainments in this language, 
was listening with the deepest attention. Both were ab- 
sorbed in their studies, when Christopher burst into the 
room, his round face beaming with joy. 

“ What a brace of hermits ! ” he exclaimed. “ You ought 
to be classed with Archimedes, who when Syracuse w’as 
taken was engaged in solving a problem of geometry, and 
cried out to the invaders, ‘ Disturb not my circle.’ London 
is alive from end to end. All the bells are ringing, the streets 
are filled with a rejoicing multitude, and there is general 
commotion. But here you are digging out Greek roots as 
calmly as if nothing had occurred.” 

“Meseems, Christopher,” replied Edith, laughing, “thou 
showest thy antiquarian proclivities on this occasion quite as 
much as we our scholarly ones ; for instead of telling us what 
all this coil is about thou dost compare us with an old 
Grecian.” 

“ My dear sister,” exclaimed the sanguine young man, 
“ clap your hands harder than ever before, for a child is born 
to the king — a princess. Hurrah! The king is safe! 
Heaven hath signified its approval of the marriage. There 
can be no question in regard to the legitimacy of this child. 
The w^ars of the Roses, of which our grandparents have told 
us, are averted from this generation. The churches e’en now 
are pealing forth the Te Deum. Come, Hal, an thy heart is 
not in Am pthill Castle, for it will be sorrowful news there. 
Nay,” he continued, good-naturedly, as he noticed Hal’s 
heightened color, “ thou art loyal to the core ; though rumor 
counteth thee as one of the many young men whose heads 
that gypsy witch hath turned. I have taken pains to deny 
it, sith I opined Lord Cromwell sent thee there on some 


232 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


errand. But come, let us not lose another moment ere we 
join in the general joy.” 

On the following Sunday Hal caroled like the sky-lark wel- 
coming the radiant morn. The lady stranger, Lady Mon- 
tague, was again amongst the maids-of-honor. As he was 
leaving the palace a letter was slipped into his hand by a 
confidential servant of Cromwell. On. reaching home he 
opened it, and found a letter enclosed for Catherine. A few 
lines from Cromwell informed him that he was to carry the 
enclosed letter to her on the next day, and take careful note 
of what he might see and hear. 


CHAPTER .XXV. 


TREASON AND LOYALTY 


Sumtyme I can be a inonke in a long syd cowle, 

Sumtyrae I can be a none and loke like an owle : 

Sumtyme a chanon in a syrples fayer and wliyght, 

A chapter-house monke sumtyme I apere in syght. 

I am ower syre John sumtyme with a new-shaven crowne, 
Sumtyme the person and swepe the strete with a syd gowne : 
Sumtyme the byshoppe Avith a miter and a cope ; 

A graye fryer sumtyme Avith cutt shoes and a rope : 
Sumtyme I can playe the whyght monke, sumtyme the fryer, 
The purgatory prist, and every man’s Avife desyer. 

Yea, to go farder, sumtyme I am a cardynall ; 

Yea, sumtyme a pope, and than am lord of all. 


Bale. 


AL found Arapthill Castle more tlironged than usual 



-■ — L with noblemen and ecclesiastics. All of them were 
in a state of high excitement. He was not admitted into 
the presence, but conducted by a servant to the jR-ivate 
apartment, where he had before often waited, or held inter- 
views with Zaida. On his way thither he met Duke de 
Montpensier and Father Forest, with a tall, peaked-faced, 
wild-looking woman between them. The two men politely 
greeted him, the former with pleasant smiles; but the 
woman glared at him fiercely. They had evidently been 
holding a secret conference with her. Hal recognized her 
as a female called the Xun of Kent, who frequented Henry’s 
court and Catherine’s, and was regarded by the papists as 
a great prophetess. She had issued, “ in the name and by 
the authority of God,” a solemn prohibition of the divorce, 
threatening the king that he should not reign a month, but 
should die a villain’s death. She had even forced herself 
into his presence, declaring that she was directed by an 


233 


234 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


angel to tell him that he must amend his life ; that he must 
“ take none of the pope’s right or patrimony from him ; ” 
that he must “ destroy all these new folks of opinion and 
the works of their new learning ; ” that “ if he married and 
took Anne to wife, the vengeance of God should plague 
him.” As the king did not die in one month after his 
divorce from Catlierine, but continued to live month after 
month peaceably with Anne, she explained that she meant 
he would not be king one month or one hour, as accepted 
of God. 

Henry regarded her as a mere lunatic, or harmless enthu- 
siast, and paid no attention to her words. But Cromwell 
knew that she had conferences with some of the most prom- 
inent Catholics, and that her language was proclaimed over 
the land as genuine prophecy by mendicant friars. He 
therefore kept strict watch of the woman. Hal was often 
questioned by him concerning Catherine’s court, and espe- 
cially whether he had seen aught of the movements of the 
Nun of Kent.* The youn^man gave a faithful account of 
what he had heard in the garden, so far as it related to a 
plot against the government, but did not reveal the names 
of the parties, who, he alleged, were concealed from hitn. 
Cromwell listened attentively, but manifested no surprise. 

Hal had waited a little longer than usual when Zaida 
entered the room, with a reply to the letter he had brought. 
Her face was flushed, and her dark eyes shot fire, yet she 
greeted him with stately kindness. 

“The time hath come,” said she, authoritatively, “to 
transfer thy allegiance from that wicked woman to thy 
rightful queen. Bring no more letters like that which hath 
just wrung the heart of her grace. O monstrous, to ask 
her to call her marriage to the king incestuous, and this 
other connection holy ; monstrous, for this base-born child 
to supplant the rightful princess, the gentle Lady Mary ! ” 

Hal replied apologetically that he knew not the contents 

* For account of “ the Nun of Kent,” see Froude’s History of England, vol. i 
pp. 2&4-307; vol. ii, pp. 170-178, . ’ 


TBEASON AND LOYALTY. 285 

of the letter, and, had he known them, he should have felt 
obliged to obey orders. Then with firmness he added, “ I 
have felt the deepest sympathy and sorrow for her grace 
alway, and, as thou knowest, dear Zaida, regretted the 
divorce; nathless, sith God hath suffered his highness to 
marry Anne Boleyn, with the sanction of those who are 
accounted the wisest men of the time, and especially sith 
he hath of late blessed their union, I cannot but acknowl- 
edge her as queen.” 

“ Silence!” she exclaimed, in an imperious tone. “Never 
call her thus before me.” 

But he interrupted her, commending Queen Anne for her 
wonderful liberality to the poor, and giving some touching 
instances. 

She refused to listen, however, stamping her feet passion- 
ately, and commanding him not to say a word about “ that 
j^ainted courtesan.” Then changing her mood, she pleaded, 
“ Hal, sweet Hal, extricate thyself from her toils. I long 
to save thee from the destruction which will ere long visit 
the heads of all those who adhere to her cause. I warn 
thee in season, Hal, because I love thee, though I wis not 
what my uncle would say.” 

“1 fear, dear Zaida,” replied Hal, calmly, “I ought to 
warn thee.” 

But the maiden went on, declaring that fearful woes were 
to descend upon the land, while she tossed her arms about 
like an ancient sibyl. There was something grandly tragic 
in her manner. If Hal had not overheard the conversation 
in the garden he would only have been interested and 
amused at the play of emotion in her face, and fascinated by 
her wild beauty and natural grace, supposing there was 
nothing serious at the bottom, and the prophecies of the 
crazy Nun of Kent had wrought upon her imagination. 
But now he felt it his duty to warn her. He repeated to 
her the words he had heard from the duke and Father 
Forest. “Dear Zaida,” he said earnestly, “I must bid thee 
beware. Lord Cromwell suspecteth some treasonous plot is 


236 


THE BOY-LOLLARB. 


hatching, and if thou tellest me ought concerning it, I am 
bound to reveal to his grace ” 

“Thou a spy ! ” she cried, indignantly. She then asked in 
scorn, “Thinkest thou there is no dungeon in this house, where 
one word from me would consign thee, to never see the light 
of day again ? Thinkest thou good Father Forest knoweth not 
enow to consign thee to a worse fate ? Ay, thee and Christopher 
Monmouth, and that artful creature, Edith Monmouth?” 

A malignant glance shot from her dark eyes at the men- 
tion of Edith that made Hal tremble. 

“No mischief is intended for Edith Monmouth?” in- 
quired Hal, alarmed; “for if there be an angel” 

He was interrupted by another burst of passion, which, 
however, was succeeded by one of tenderness; and now the 
gypsy words came thick and fast. She assured him of the 
downfall of Anne and of the rise of Catherine. She urged 
him for his own sake and for hers to esj^ouse the cause of 
the true queen. She referred to tlieir old attachment, and, 
while her face reddened, she spoke words that implied he 
might have her love for the asking, and hinted that her 
uncle could utter a secret that would make his blood bound 
in his veins. Never did the maiden look so winning, so 
seductive, as at this moment. But he thought of the pure 
blue eyes of Edith Monmouth; he thought of the sacred 
manuscript, and of the pale, sweet face bending over it in 
his dreams, and then of that same face as it gazed lovingly 
upon him, growing paler and sweeter, until death robbed its 
eyes of light and its lips of instruction forever ; he thought 
of Frith, of Tyndale, of the Brethren ; he thought of his 
New Testament, of his seasons of prayer, of God, of Christ, 
of duty, of honor; and he resisted. And yet here was the 
maiden who loved him, no longer gypsy, but titled, ad- 
mired. Her uncle carried the secret of his parentage, which 
was sufficiently noble to make the proud Spaniard desire an 
alliance between his niece and himself. Perhaps in no other 
way could he learn that secret and secure the rank which 
belonged to him. 


TREASON AND LOYALTY. 


237 


The maiden was too proud to brook his liesitation, and 
exclaimed vehemently, “I have said to thee what I would 
not to the proudest peer of Queen Catherine’s court, and 
what thou’lt ne’er hear from me again! ” With a haughty 
air she sailed out of the room. 

As Hal left the palace and started for London he sighed 
at being separated from this beautiful and singular creature. 
And yet he had never seriously thought of a union with 
one so wild, untamed, passionate, arid uncultured, having 
perhaps no more religion than her father, to whom he had 
of late noticed several times a striking resemblance, espe- 
cially when she mentioned the name of Edith Monmouth. 

On his arrival at the king’s court he informed Cromwell 
of his cool reception, and in what circumstances the Nun of 
Kent had appeared to him. 

Hal continued to see Lady Montague in the royal chapel. It 
was not long before she took him aside, and thanked him again 
for what he had done toward releasing her from the Tower. 
She referred to the queen’s interest in him, to her servant 
Dick Braynton’s affection for him, and to the sketch both 
had given her of his history. She dwelt upon his resem- 
blance to her which they had noted, adding with a trembling 
voice, “ Though it had not been mentioned to me when I 
first saw thee, I then thought of my murdered baby, and 
opined that had he lived he would resemble thee.” 

Lady Montague’s face was the most open and transparent 
Hal had ever seen. It was moreover as sweet as the late 
Lady Templeton’s, while it was stronger. One day he was 
requested to repair to the private apartment of the queen 
and sing the piece he had sung on the Sunday before in the 
chapel. Anne was seated with Lady Montague and her 
maids-of-honor, who were sewing as for dear life, making 
garments for the poor. Hal had not seen her since the birth 
of the princess, and kneeling he kissed the hand loyally 
which she held out to him. The queen’s sunny face was 
paler than he had seen it, and he noticed a slight shadow of 
displeasure upon it. 


238 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


“I hear, Hal, thou liast been playing truant, and doing 
homage elsewhere. Nathless,” she said, more pleasantly, “ I 
will not believe it, sith thy face giveth the lie to the rumor. 
I would as soon distrust thee,” turning to Lady Montague, 
“ sith your face and his have the same stamp of honesty upon 
them.” 

Hal sung not only the song requested, but many others, to 
tlie satisfaction of the queen and those who were with her. 
He went often afterwards to the queen’s apartment by re- 
quest for the same purpose. Master Horton, whom he met 
occasionally, was as quiet and taciturn as ever. The Mon- 
mouths were now often at court. The king conferred 
knighthood on Mr. Monmouth. Edith was more attractive 
than ever to the young nobles. Many of the Reformers, or 
those who had been favorable to the Reformation, were 
amongst the courtiers. Cranmer’s mild, benevolent face was 
everywhere. Latimer passed in and out at pleasure, while 
the greatest peers were obliged to wait. Cromwell, who w^as 
the ruling spirit, was endeavoring to effect a league with the 
Protestant princes of Germany. Works which had been 
pronounced heretical and publicly burned were read without 
any attempt at secrecy. Each of the queen’s ladies wore on 
her neck as a gift from her a tiny volume bound in gold, con- 
taining the Psalms of David. Henry had told the French 
ambassador that Clement might be Bishop of Rome, or pope 
if he preferred the title, but he should have no more juris- 
diction in England ; that he would acknowledge Jesus Christ 
and him only as the true lord of Christian men, and only 
his Word should be preached in England. But while there 
were some bright and happy faces in the royal palace there 
were not a few dark and frowning ones. Many of the latter 
belonged to high ecclesiastics, such as Fisher and Tunstal, — 
Gardiner’s cannot be added, since his face was no index of 
his feelings. A few belonged to the proudest of the nobil- 
ity, as closely wedded to papacy as the ecclesiastics, and 
displeased at the elevation of Anne Boleyn and her family 
above themselves. For while that lady had many friends. 


TBEASON AND LOYALTY. 


239 


especially among scholars and learned men who had shared 
largely of her benefactions, some of whom could be seen 
at court, and among the poor outside whom she was con- 
stantly blessing by her liberality, she had unwittingly in- 
curred an enmity fraught witli utmost peril to herself, yet 
of w'hich she did not seem to be conscious. There were 
many eyes that watched keenly for her tripping. There 
were many voices that would have loved to utter the foulest 
slanders on her name if they dared. Wolsey, though in some 
respects a pander to the king, had nevertheless exerted some 
restraint over him, and Catherine had moderated his pas- 
sions; but when he renounced Wolsey and Catherine he 
gave himself up to his own will and pleasure, since Cromwell 
and Anne did not take their places. To one so artless and 
unsuspecting and vain as Anne Lady Montague proved a 
true friend. She had noticed that Anne apparently liked to 
bewitch the young gentlemen of her court, and trusting to 
the friendship between them she took the liberty to warn 
her in lier gentlest and humblest manner of the peril of 
arousing the jealousy and hatred of Henry. 

Hal had been sent for to come to the queen’s apartment, 
and had entered unnoticed. The queen and Lady Montague 
were at the other end of the room very earnestly engaged in 
conversation. 

“ Pardon me,” said Lady Montague, “ but let your gracious 
highness remember your dignity as the queen of a great 
realm, and the wife of a noble king who in his goodness hatli 
raised you so high. Think of the result if aught of jealousy 
should visit that royal breast.” 

Anne’s face flushed, and she was evidently displeased. 
“No more of this,” she replied, imperiously. “ Is he to have 
all the license and I none?” 

Hal had heard tlie report that Henry had grown cold 
toward her, and had been making love to Lady Jane Sey- 
mour, one of her maids-of-honor. He had even heard it 
whispered that Anne was receiving the same treatment that 
she had awarded to her former mistress, Catherine. At 


240 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


that moment Anne observed Hal, and exclaimed indignantly, 
“ Ha ! an eavesdropper ! ” 

Hal threw himself on his knees, and reminded the queen 
that he had come at her command, declaring that he had 
been an unwilling listener. 

“True, true,” she replied, in a mild tone; “and thou wilt 
show thy fidelity by not repeating what thou hast heard. 
Now let us hear thee sing.” 

When he commenced her countenance cleared up, and 
she forgot the warning of her friend, as was evinced, alas ! 
in her subsequent conduct. 

Soon after this came the news that a plot to depose the 
king and seat Lady Mary on the throne had been discov- 
ered ; that the Nun of Kent, five of the monks of Canter- 
bury, and many of the nobility — amongst tliem the Count- 
ess of Salisbury — had been arrested, and Catherine, and 
Lady Mary, her daughter, and even Bishop Fisher and Sir 
Thom.as More were suspected. Hal became alarmed for 
the safety of Zaida. He went to Ampthill Castle several 
times, but was refused admittance. He could learn nothing 
concerning the duke or his niece. He had thought, and Sir 
Humphrey Monmouth had suggested, that she might find 
refuge at the house of the merchant. After a while the bull 
of excommunication against the king arrived ; then the nun 
and some of her accomplices were executed ; then Bishop 
Fisher and Sir Thomas More were sent to the Tower for 
refusing to take the oath to the act of succession, or to that 
part of it W'hich declared that the marriage of the king with 
Catherine was illegal, and his marriage with Anne was legal. 
Their refusal to take the oath was considered equivalent to 
saying that not Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth, but Catherine’s 
daughter, Mary, was heir to the throne. 

Many on the side of the Reformation were now more 
encouraged than ever. Sir Humphrey Monmouth’s table 
was again thronged with guests. But they did not engage 
so miich in a discussion of their sentiments as in prophecies 
that these would speedily be held by king and nation. 


THE A SON AND LOYALTY, 


241 

Lady Monmouth, as she was now called, from the knight- 
hood conferred on her husband, and Edith, did not share an 
the general hopefulness, though they uttered not a word of 
dissent. At court Cromwell’s face and Cranmer’s and Lati- 
mer’s were jubilant, but Lady Montague’s wore an anxious 
expression. Master Horton, always calm, quiet, and appar- 
ently indifferent, was an enigma to everybody but Hal. 
The latter, holding in his hand the manuscript Horton him- 
self had transcribed, in repeated conversations drew out 
from him his real sentiments, and discovered him to be a 
warm friend of the Reformation, and a close observer of 
men and things, and a far-seeing man. 

“I feared for thee,” said Master Horton, fixing upon him 
his quiet eye, and speaking in a quiet tone, “ lest some syren 
in Catherine’s court had wound thee in her fatal embrace.” 
There was a heightened color in Hal’s face, but Horton 
went on without regarding it; “and now I fear for thee lest 
thou visit too often, and tarry too long in the queen’s 
apartments.” Hal indignantly declared that he had acted 
strictly according to royal command, and the queen had 
shown him no more favor than it was fitting she should 
toward her humblest subject. But Master Horton con- 
tinued as quietly as ever, “the queen is more free with 
other gentlemen, if not with thee, than some consider 
seemly in one occupying her high position; and let jealousy 
once take possession of the breast of his highness, and — 
his voice sinking to an almost inaudible whisper — ruin will 
visit her grace, and all to whom, in her private apartments, 
she hath shown special favor. She, with them, sitteth on 
the crest of a volcano, and an eruption may occur at any 
moment.” 

Hal’s face grew white with fear. “But how can this be. 
Master Horton,” he asked, “ sith the queen is guileless and 
the king is unsuspecting ? ” 

“Ah, but evil tongues are abroad,” was the reply. “Hast 
met no one oft when going to and issuing from the queen’s 
apartments ? ” 


242 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“None save Bishop Gardiner,” replied Hal, “and he 
seemed not to notice me.” 

Master Horton smiled significantly. “ There’s a world of 
craft under that brow. ‘ Seemed,’ say you ! ” And for the 
first time Hal saw him laugh. Master Horton was perhaps 
the only person in court who understood Stephen Gardiner, 
a man who afterward became so infamous for his cruel 
persecutions, and of whom Lloyed gave this curious descrip- 
tion about a century after his death : — 

“ His reservedness was such that he never did what he 
aimed at, never aimed at what he intended, never intended 
what he said, and never said what he thought; whereby 
he carried it so that others should do his business when 
they opposed it, and he should undermine theirs when he 
seemed to promote it, — a man that was to be traced like 
the fox, and read, like the Hebrew, backward. If you 
would know what he did you must observe what he did 
not.”* 

This man was an enemy to Anne Boleyn, because he con- 
sidered her a favorer of the Reformation. 

Occasionally Dick Braynton was seen by Hal at the home 
of the Monmouths, on some message to his mistress at 
court. Always respectful, and mindful of his humble posi- 
tion in society, he would nevertheless express himself with 
the utmost plainness and freedom. And as there liad been 
a sort of democracy among the Brethren, and besides, as he 
was highly esteemed for his character and intelligence, what 
he said was generally well received. 

“We must not depend, under God,” he said, “ upon kings 
and ju’inces who love this world, to carry on the Reforma- 
tion, but upon the prayers and labors of good men and good 
women, most of whom have no title save what God hath 
given them as heirs of His heavenly kingdom.” 

To his mind those who led the gay festivities of the court 
could not lead the glorious cause for which he and so many 


Lodge’s “ Illustrations of Britisk History,” vol. i, p. 126, note. 






TREASON ANE LOYALTY. 243 

others had suffered. And when they were praised for their 
piety, Dick repeated the lines, — 

“ They saye that all the pryde is in the harte, 

And none in the garmentes gaye; 

But surely yf there were no proude harte, 

There woulde be no proude araye.” 




CHAPTER XXVI. 


RETRIBUTION, 


A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards 
Hath ta’en with equal thanks. 


Shakspeare, 


HILE Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More lay in 



V V the Tower a great change was taking place in Eng- 
land. Dick Braynton and others against whom the terrible 
papal curse had been pronounced now appeared in public, and 
neither priest nor friar dared to put his finger on them ; for 
had not the king himself been excommunicated, and yet did 
he not defy the pope’s power and trample it under his feet ? 
Was not the papal supremacy abolished by act of Parlia- 
ment ? Were not the clergy required by law to thus instruct 
the people, and to show' forth the cause of the separation 
from Rome ; — its usurpations in regard to the king’s divorce 
and marriage? Those who owned Wickliffe’s Bible, and 
Tyndale’s New Testament and other portions of Scripture, 
could now read them and even circulate them without 
molestation ; for had not the queen herself been long in the 
habit of reading the New Testament of Tyndale, and had 
she not received from him a copy of an improved edition 
issued in 1534, richly printed, decorated and illuminated, 
on whose gilt edges were the words, “Anna, Angliae, 
Regina ” ? * The Brethren, known to be such, issued from 
their hiding-places ; for had not Miles Coverdale, the former 
associate of Tyndale, been appointed to translate the Scrip- 
tures ? The men and women who wore the brand on their 
cheek, or the fagot on their clothing, could face the proudest 

* This copy is still in existence, in the British Museum. Demaus’s “ Tyn- 
dale,” pp. 401, 402. 

244 


RETRIBUTION. 


245 


of the priests ; for had not the latter taken the oath of suc- 
cession, and of supremacy that followed it — according to 
which the king was pope — though with mental reservation? 
Father Forest said in the confessional that he abjured the 
pope in the outward but not in the inward man. The clergy 
and not heretics were now the suspected ones ; for had not 
the laws against heretics been relaxed, and had not the 
clergy been regarded, many of them, as secretly in league 
with treason ? 

Of all the dwellers at court Master Horton was seemingly 
unmoved by what was transpiring. More a mystery than 
ever, he passed daily through halls thronged with excited 
nobles and ecclesiastics, with an air of impenetrable silence 
and reserve. Hal found it difficult to heed the warning his 
stern friend had given him, — to visit the queen’s apartments 
less frequently, — for there had sprung up an attachment 
between him and Lady Montague as between son and 
mother. The queen noticed it, and said, “ ’Pon my soul, 
thy murdered boy hath come to life again. Pity ’tis Sir 
Humphrey Monmouth got the start of thee, and adopted him 
so soon.” Hal’s singing was in general joyous, though not 
without some strains in the minor key prompted by his sym- 
pathy for Sir Thomas More and Margaret and the other 
members of his family. Those strains called forth no an- 
swering feeling from the queen and her friends, who hardly 
understood them. We must, however, except Lady Mon- 
tague, who, thrilled by them as they rang through the queen’s 
apartments, ventured to speak a kindly word for the unfor- 
tunate knight, when an angry flush visited Anne’s face, and 
she hastily glanced at that lady and Hal as though there had 
been some collusion between them. After this the young 
man noticed that his singing in the queen’s apartments and 
in the chapel often seemed to displease Anne. 

At home Hal found no response to his attachment to the 
Mores from Sir Humphrey and his lady and Christopher. 
They regarded Sir Thomas More only as a violent persecutor, 
and his daughter as no better. But Edith had not forgotten 


246 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


her old friend. Once after reciting a lesson in Homer — she 
had left the Greek of the New Testament for classic Greek 
for awhile — she asked, “Wilt thou go with me to Chelsea 
this afternoon ? Father hath given his consent, though some- 
what unwillingly.” 

After dinner, seating themselves in the barge, they soon 
reached the landing-place. Lady More’s reception was 
curt- and susjHcious. “Well-a-day! Ye’ve come unexpect- 
edly. Naught but silence and sad looks you’ll find here. 
Make treason out of these if ye can. Margaret is in the 
garden, an she is the one ye want to see.” As they passed 
into it they were struck with the contrast between this and 
former days. There were no happy voices, no bright and 
cheerful faces ; servants who looked familiar bowed coldly 
though respectfully, and boys and girls bearing the unmis- 
takable More physiognomy looked at them curiously ; every- 
where was the atmosphere of strangeness and gloom. They 
intuitively betook themselves to the arbor, and there sat 
Margaret Roper, with Erasmus’s Latin New Testament closed 
in her hand, and apparently lost in thought. Her face was 
pale and wan, and the fool stood near her, looking puzzled 
and distressed, his finger touching his wrinkled fore- 
head. He was the first to notice them, and uttered an 
exclamation of joyful astonishment. A look of surprise, 
mingled with some embarrassment, visited Margaret’s face, 
which, however, indicated no displeasure. Edith at first 
shrunk back, then timidly approached and se*ated herself 
close beside her with her arm around her waist. Hal im- 
pulsively threw himself on his knees, and seizing her hand 
bathed it with his tears. Not a word was said by either 
party ; and Margaret, overcome, leaned her head on Edith’s 
shoulder, and wept unrestrained. Hal arose, and bowing low 
was about retiring, but Margaret motioned him to remain 
and to sit on the other side of her. After a few moments of 
silence Margaret said : — 

“ It is very kind of you, my sweet Edith and Master Hal, 
to come to us in our great sorrow. Those who used to be 


RETRIBUTION, 


247 


our frequent guests keep aloof.” She was evidently think- 
ing of Sir Humphrey Monmouth’s imprisonment partly or 
wholly through her father’s means, and how she had then 
kept severely aloof from the Monmouth family, for she ex- 
claimed, “ How forgiving ! ” — and then broke down. 

Edith replied by a gentle pressure, saying, “ Speak not of 
it, my sweet Meg, the little estrangement grew out of the 
evil times and not thy gentle heart.” 

Margaret smiled sadly, “I trow, my sweet Edith, thou 
judgest me by thyself. My heart, I fear me, hath not been 
gentle alway.” 

“ Sith thy conscience forbade thee, my sweet Margaret, an 
it hath been so,” was the answer. 

“Ever ready with an excuse, my sweet Edith. Nathless 
it is so, I ween. I deemed thee in grievous error, and, 
pardon me, thus I deem thee still. I have not ceased to 
love thee, and have prayed for thee oft ; and when I have 
drawn nearest to God, the thought hath taken possession of 
me, that mayhap in Heaven we shall meet and see eye 
to eye.” 

“That thought is born of such communion alway, my 
sweet Margaret ; and when cherished it causeth Christians 
of varying minds to have more charity for each other.” 

“ True, my sweet Edith ; and shall I tell thee a suggestion 
thy sudden appearance gave me ? It was that thou didst 
find me with Erasmus’s Latin translation of the New Tes- 
tament, which some good people account heresy ; and, if I 
had sought thee when thy father was imprisoned, thou 
wouldst questionless have been seeking consolation in Tyn- 
dale’s English translation of the same, which many of us 
account heresy.” The old shadow began to come in her 
eyes. “ But I will not dwell on this point, lest it break off 
our interview. I spake to thee harshly,” turning to Hal ; 
“but I meant good, and not ill, and have followed thy 
course sithence with pleasure. Thou hast won golden opin- 
ions everywhere, — in Wolsey’s household, at the king’s 
court, with the poor, discarded queen and her friends, and 


248 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


in Sir Humphrey Monmouth’s family. Master Horton hath 
spoken highly of thee to me, and praise from him is rare, as 
thou knowest.” 

Hal’s face glowed with delight, as it used to years before, 
when she had commended him for reciting a good lesson. 
“ I perceive,” she said, “ that thou hast not outgrown thy 
childhood’s sensitiveness. It is well. My father com- 
mendeth that whenever he seeth it in any of his children.” 
And now a sense of her father’s condition visited her, and she 
gave way to lamentations over his sad fate. It appeared 
that she had done her best to induce him to take the oath, 
“laboring to persuade” him in “such vehement, piteous 
manner,” * as we may see by reading a letter he wrote to her 
while in prison. And yet she knew that he could not consci- 
entiously take it. Hal thought of the message Master 
Frith’s wife had sent to her husband in contrast, as was 
related in the chapter recording his martyrdom. But here 
the fool, who had remained with his finger to his forehead, 
looked more puzzled than ever, and asked, — 

“Why, what aileth him that he will not swear? Why 
should he stick to swear? I have sworn the oath my- 
self.”! 

The poor fool did not understand how Sir Thomas More 
could have any scruple about it, since he had felt none him- 
self ; and many who call themselves wise have been similarly 
puzzled about the conduct of others. 

“The very same aileth him,” replied Margaret, “that 
aileth me, that aileth us three, I trow. I would not take 
the oath. Wouldst thou, sweet Edith? Wouldst thou, 
sweet Master Hal ? ” 

Both of them shook their heads decidedly. 

“Then,” continued she, “we agree in this; and we all 
honor dear father for not yielding to my poor, weak solici- 
tations.” 

“I reverence the king,” remarked Edith, “and will obey 

*■ Roper’s “Life of Sir Thomas jMore,” p. 148, Appendix, 
t Roper’s “ Life of Sir Thomas More,’’ p. 202, note. 


RETRIBUTION. 


249 


him in civil matters ; but in religidus I recognize no lord 
but Christ.” 

“We will not discuss the reasons for not taking the oath,”- 
said Margaret, the ominous shadow threatening to return ; 
“ it is enow that we can stand on common ground, and ye 
have come to offer me Christian sympathy.” 

The communion of hearts that followed between Mar- 
garet and Edith was refreshing. A spectator would not have 
supposed that the one belonged to the ranks of the perse- 
cutors and the other to the ranks of the persecuted ; that 
the one regarded the other as holding to blasphemous opin- 
ions, for which she should be burned, although the influence 
of her gentle piety had been felt in almost every palace and 
hovel in London and its vicinity. And Hal felt that the old 
intimacy between himself and Margaret was restored. All 
this might be transient, but it was bliss while it lasted; 
and oh, how restful to the aching heart of Margaret, and to 
the sympathizing hearts of Edith and Hal, after they had 
been cruelly torn from each other so long.” 

Margaret told of several interviews she had had with her 
father. “At the last,” she said, “sith he knew I had re- 
cently been at court, he inquired, ‘ And how doth Queen 
Anne ? ’ My father well knoweth that she hateth him, and 
will compass his death, an she is able. Nathless, he kindly 
inquired concerning her. ‘In faith, father,’ I replied, 

‘ never better. There is nothing else at court but dancing 
and sporting.’ ‘Never better!’ quoth he, sadly; ‘alas! 
Meg, alas ! it pitieth me to remember unto what misery she 
will shortly come. These dances of hers will prove such 
dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs, 
but it will not be long ere her head will dance the like 
dance.’ ” * 

The interview then terminated. After again expressing 
her gratitude for the visit, Margaret looked at Edith and 
Hal admiringly and with some significance, and said, “ Fare- 
well; ye are of one mind. May ye be happy.” These 

♦ More’s “ Life of More,” p. 244. 


250 


THE B0Y~L0LLA1W. 


words awakened in Hal’s breast a hope which he liad not 
allowed himself to cherish. He dared not turn his eyes to 
Edith’s face to see how she received them. He had not 
presumed to consider her other than a sister. Yet what he 
had overheard from Duke de Montpensier came to his mind, 
and he thought that Providence might some day reveal to 
him a parentage of which he would be proud. He would 
then venture to whisper some tenderer words in Edith’s ear 
than he had yet used. But he soon banished the thought 
as presumptuous. 

A few days had elapsed since the visit to Chelsea when 
Cromwell sent for Hal, and putting into his hand a letter, 
requested him to take it to Sir Thomas More in the Tower, 
with assurances of his and Archbishop Cranmer’s esteem 
and desire to do all in their power to serve him. It was a 
mission of some delicacy, which the minister thought Hal 
could perform better than any one else. The keeper un- 
fastened the door, and letting him into the room, bolted it 
again and retired. Hal started back at the sight. Sir 
Thomas was kneeling, with the same knotted scourge on 
the table beside him which the young man had seen him 
using in the oratory at Chelsea. It was bloody, apparently 
from recent use, although he had on his doublet. He was 
so engaged in his devotions that he did not notice Hal’s 
entrance. The prayers which he was reading — they being 
his own composition — came to Hal’s ears in those clear, 
soft tones so familiar to him : — 

“ Good Lord, give me the grace, in all my fear and agony, 
to have recourse to that great fear and wonderful agony 
that Thou, my sweet Saviour, hadst on the mount of Olivet, 
before Thy most bitter passion ; and in the meditation 
thereof to conceive comfort and consolation profitable to 
every soul. 

“Almighty God, take from me all vain-glorious mind, all 
appetite of praise, all envy, covetousness, sloth, all appetite 
of revenge, all desire or delight of other folks’ harm, all 
pleasure in provoking any to wrath and anger, all delight in 


RETRIBUTION, 


251 


exprobation or insultation against any person in calamity or 
affliction.* 

“O my sweet Saviour, Christ, while Thine undeserved 
love to man would suffer the painful death of the cross, let 
me not be cold or lukewarm in my return of love to Thee. 
And grant, O most blessed Redeemer, that I may endeavor 
after those things only for which I ought to pray unto Thee ; 
and keep from me all those things for which I ought not to 
pray. And to Thee, and to the Father, and to the Holy 
Spirit, be all honor and glory, world without end. Amen. 

“Good Lord, give me the grace so to spend'my life that 
when the day of my death shall come, though I may feel 
pain in my body I may feel comfort in my soul, and, with 
faithful hope of Thy mercy, in true love toward Thee and 
charity to all the world, I may through Thy grace part 
hence to Thy glory.” t 

As the knight arose from his knees he perceived Hal, who 
still remained by the door, and who begged pardon for the 
intrusion. Hurriedly concealing the knotted scourge, he 
beckoned the youth to approach. 

“ Thou sensest not,” he said, his old smile stealing over a 
face now very pale and anxious, “ I am no more Sir Thomas 
More, chancellor, but only Thomas More, a poor caitiff, to 
be treated with no more reverence than heretics are wont 
to give me in their writings. Tut, tut,” he continued, as 
the young man, coming forward, knelt and burst into tears ; 
“ nathless, thy affection is praiseworthy, and these are the 
first tears I have seen shed for me save poor Meg’s.” Here 
his voice faltered. “ She knoweth how it will end, sith she 
knoweth me, being made of the same stuff herself.” 

Hal ventured to say that his earnest prayers were that he 
might be released. 

The knight readied that that was well in him, but that he 
ought always to make his requests to God for temporal 
favors for himself or others conditionally. “How many 

* Walter’s “ Life of More,” p. 287. 
t “ Sir Thomas More : A Selection,” etc., pp. 303, 304. 


252 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


men,” he said, “attain health of body, for whose soul’s 
health it were far better that they were sick still. How 
many get out of prison to hap in such harm abroad as the 
prison would have kept from them. How many who were 
loth to lose their worldly goods have, by keeping the same, 
been ruined in soul.” * 

Hal expressed in his best manner the kindly feelings of 
Lord Cromwell and Archbishop Cranrner, and handed him 
the letter, which, after reading. Sir Thomas at once began 
to answer, there being pen, ink, and j^aper on the table. 
The youth had risen by request, and was standing, since he 
refused to be seated. He judged from the stern and sar- 
castic expression on Sir Thomas’s face the import of both 
letter and reply, — that the minister had urged him to 
recede from his position, and he was giving a resolute 
refusal. He had just finished writing, when a lady entered. 
It was Lady Montague. Advancing, she gave Hal a smile 
of recognition, and greeted Sir Thomas More as she would 
an old friend. 

“ Is’t possible,” he asked, in amazement, carefully study- 
ing her features, “ that I see thee again ? Or is it some one 
else, that resembles the dear playmate of my childhood?” 

“ Thou seest one,” replied Lady Montague, “ who, I trow, 
will never alter in her regard for him she hath once loved.” 

“ Eliza,” exclaimed he, tenderly, “ thou hast proved thy 
faithfulness in visiting me in prison ! ” 

“ I would have come long ere this,” she replied, “ had I 
been able to get permission.” 

“ Then thou hast been in the country for a considerable 
time?” 

“ Ay ; though after my release from the Tower, while at 
court, I was not allowed to go to Chelsea. Nathless, I was 
about stealing thither when thou wast arrested.” 

“ I wis who it was interdicted thee. But thou a prisoner ? 
It was not thou, Eliza, whom I sent here two years ago ? ” 
He looked troubled. 


* “Selections,” p. 303. 


RETRIBUTION. 


253 


“The very same, Sir Thomas; but be not grieved. Thou 
didst doubtless believe thyself in the way of duty. In 
these evil times the husband imprisons the wife, the parent 
the child, and why not the friend the friend?” 

“ I verily thought it was the lady who married thy hus- 
band’s brother, and liveth at Antwerp.” 

“ I have not come to uj^braid thee. Sir Thomas, for what 
I surmised might be a mistake. Indeed, I was glad to suffer 
for my dear friend and sister, with whom I have taken 
sweet counsel several years. It is enow that I was released 
through the kindness of Master Hal here, who bore a letter 
from me to the queen, whom I knew in childhood. I have 
come but to express my sympathy for an old friend in 
trouble.” There was a look of affectionate concern on her 
face, and as he glanced at the youth he noticed precisely 
the same look on his. Struck with the resemblance. Sir 
Thomas exclaimed, — 

“By my halidom, Eliza, the lad is thine! I saw thee 
in him the first time I set my eyes on his face, and I have 
seen thee in him oft, but never so much as now. Nay, it 
cannot be, for I know thy history ; it is sad indeed. But 
what meaneth this marvelous likeness ? ” 

“Thou rememberest,” replied the lady, “I had a sister, 
and we were twins, and so alike that we were often mis- 
taken the one for the other.” 

“ I never made that mistake,” said Sir Thomas, smiling 
significantly. 

Lady Montague colored slightly and went on : “ My sister, 
like myself, had one child, a boy. One day, when he was 
about six years old, he was missing. Search was made in 
the woods for miles, and then in the river that flowed rap- 
idly by her dwelling, but to no purpose. It was at length 
decided that he must have been drowned, and his body 
carried to sea, into which the river flowed, a few rods dis- 
tant. As soon as I saw Master Hal, and heard his history, 
I thought he might be my sister’s child, and I have been 
trying to find the whereabouts of her husband, who after 


254 


TUE BOY-LOLLARD. 


her death was inconsolable, and hath been traveling on the 
continent somewhere sithence. I had not intended to speak 
of this to Master Hal till I had found her husband, Sir 
Robert Montague, lest mayhap he should be disappointed.” 

Lady Montague then changed the subject, and uttered in 
the ear of the knight many Scripture passages she deemed 
appropriate, pressing them home with some kind words of 
her own. In all she said there was nothing in regard to his 
taking the oath, or doing aught against his conscience. Sir 
Thomas was fairly overcome and wept. The stoicism, the 
almost mocking spirit with which he had met his wife, who 
had come to see him in his prison, had gone. That bustling 
woman had uj)braided him for being “ content thus to be 
shut up among mice and rats,” when he might be merry 
with his wife, his children, and his household. 

“ Thou alone,” said Sir Thomas, as Lady Montague arose 
to go, the keeper appearing at the door, “ of all my visitors, 
hath given me Gospel comfort. When last I saw thee I 
reminded thee that twenty-five years had elapsed since we 
parted, and I expressed the wish, in some foolish lines, that 
in twenty-five years more we might meet again. Hast for- 
gotten them? — 

“ ‘ O may the gods, who five long lustres past, 

Have brought us to each other well at last. 

Grant that, when numbered five long lustres more. 

Healthful I still may hail thee, healthful as before.’ * 

“ The wish hath been more than gratified, sith we meet 
in less than three lustres. We next meet in heaven. I 
must go long before thee, and will await thy coming, though 
not impatiently. I have feared that heresy had found ad- 
mittance into this lad’s breast, and have endeavored to dispel 
it therefrom, and have even imagined it distilled from thy 
lips during this interview, though with many precious 
truths. And so I shall betake myself to prayer for thee 
and him, and hope that there” — pointing upward -^^we 

* Cayley’s “ Memoirs of Sir Thomas More,” vol, i, p. 269, 


' RETRIBUTION. 255 

shall understand one another better. Pray for me, sweet 
Eliza. Farewell.” 

Tears gushed from his eyes, and his voice was tremulous 
with emotion, as Lady Montague and Hal took their de- 
parture. The wondering youth now learned for the first 
time that the friend of whom he used to remind Sir Thomas 
so strikingly was the same with the queen’s friend and Dick 
Bray n ton’s mistress. 

Subseqently Hal saw Sir Thomas More several times as 
the bearer of a letter or message to him from court. Once 
he found him conversing with several of his friends, and 
before he left heard him say, “ If ever ye have by reason of 
your office to punish evil men, cleave fast to God, that no 
secret, cruel affection, under the cloak of a just and virtuous 
zeal, creep underneath.” * 

Hal watched for some other and more convincing indica- 
tion in this direction. But he gave no further sign. It was 
not like him to recede from a position he had once taken. 
As he had hated the Reformers heretofore, he hated them 
to tlie end ; at least he said nothing that implied the con- 
trary. As he had refused to take the oath to the king’s 
supremacy thus far, he refused to take it to the end. He 
had been led to do both by his conscience. But though he 
perhaps doubted at last whether in respect to the Re- 
formers it had not guided him wrong somewhat, he cer- 
tainly did not doubt about taking the oath. 

Unhappily the king was as inflexible as he, though there 
could be no conscience on his side. It was evident, 
therefore, that Sir Thomas More must die ; and it was spe- 
cially so after the execution of the Charter-house monks 
and of Bishop Fisher for refusing to take the oath. Soon 
word came to Hal that he had just been condemned. Im- 
pelled by a feeling of sympathy he directed his steps to 
the Tower. Sir Thomas, surrounded by bills and halberds, 
was landing at the very moment o^ Hal’s arrival. Soon he 
saw a lady bursting through the guards and throwing her- 

* “ Living Age,” p. 776, 1869. 


256 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


self on his neck, and a loud, heart-broken cry reached his 
ears: “0 my father! O my father!” He knew it was 
Margaret, and Sir Thomas appeared to be giving her his 
fatherly blessing, though he could not hear what was said. 
They were then separated; but he had not advanced ten 
steps before she again forced her way to him, and gave way 
to her impulses of affection and sorrow. Hal could see the 
tears fall from the eyes of Sir Thomas and the guard. But 
they were soon torn from each other’s embrace. The 
young man never saw him again. In four days he heard 
of his execution. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


DESPEKATE 


Here, Lord, thy holy words they burn. 

Thy teachings pure they from them spurn ; 

Here are thy precepts thrust aside, 

And license given to vice and pride ; 

Here pardons granted every day. 

But none to those who cannot pay. 

Here lies are told, deceit begun. 

And sins remitted ere they’re done ; 

Here even thy holy Heaven they sell, 

And here condemn to pains of Hell 
Whoever dares a word to say. 

Here men of truth are driven away. 

Our nation spoiled by robbers bold. 

And wicked deeds allowed for gold. 

Here for his soul man careth not. 

And thou. Lord God, art nigh forgot. 

Ulrich Von Hutten. 


'^IIEN the king was told of the execution of Sir Thomas 



V V More he was playing checkers, while Queen Anne 
was looking on. Fixing his eyes upon her, he said, “ Thou 
art the cause of this man’s death,” and without finishing the 
game he betook himself to his chamber and fell into a fit of 
melancholy. Poor Henry ! Sensible of the loss he had ex- 
perienced, — his wise counselor having gone where he would 
be beyond his fickle favor as well as his wrath, — he laid the 
blame to the beautiful lady who might perhaps have pre- 
vented the axe from falling by her intercession. Poor Anne ! 
She had flung aside her best friend and adviser. Lady Mon- 
tague, since she was angered by her interest in Sir Thomas 
More and her faithful warnings, and had put in her jilace Lady 
Lilly Hunsdon. Lady Montague, however, still remained at 


court 


Upon its being knowm in Rome that Bishop Fisher and Sir 
Thomas More had been beheaded, the j^ope issued the follovv- 


257 


258 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


ing sentence, to take effect in a certain number of days if 
the king did not repent: — 

“The king, with all who abetted him in his crimes, was 
pronounced accursed — cut off from the body of Christ, ta 
perish. When he died, his body should lie without burial ; 
his soul, blasted with anathema, should be cast into hell for- 
ever. The lands of his subjects who remained faithful to 
him were laid under an interdict : their children were dis- 
inherited, their marriages illegal, their wills invalid ; only by 
one condition could they escape their fate, — by instant rebel- 
lion against the apostate prince. All officers of the crown 
were absolved from their oaths; all subjects, secular or 
ecclesiastic, from their allegiance. The entire nation, under 
penalty of excommunication, was commanded no longer to 
acknowledge Henry as their sovereign. 'No true son of the 
church should hold intercourse with him or his adherents. 
They must neither trade with them, speak with them, nor 
give them food. The clergy, leaving behind a few of their 
number to baptize the new-born infants, were to withdraw 
from the accursed land, and return no more till it had sub- 
mitted. If the king, trusting to force, persevered in his 
iniquity, the lords and commons of England, dukes, mar- 
quises, earls, and all other persons, were required, under the 
same penalty of excommunication, to expel him from the 
throne ; and the Christian princes of Europe were called on 
to show their fidelity to the Holy See, by aiding in so godly 
a work. 

“In conclusion, as the king had commanded his clergy to 
preach against the pope in their churches, so the pope com- 
manded them to retaliate upon the king, and with bell, book, 
and candle declare him cursed.” * 

This furious sentence did not fall harniless to the ground. 
It made a tremendous impression everywhere, especially 
upon the clergy — those who were English being, according 
to the old historian Henry, “ more the subjects of the pope 
than of their native sovereign.” There were loud threats 

* Fronde’s “ History of England,” vol. ii, pp. 386, 387, 


DESPERATE. 


259 


abroad ; there were significant mutterings at home ; there 
were still secret plottings in Catherine’s decimated co-urt ; 
there were ominous looks even in the king’s. But the 
stout-liearted monarch was not frightened. 

Son e of the nobility frequented both courts. One of 
these was Sir George Templeton, who paid his addresses 
about equally to Lady Zaida de Montpensier and to Lady 
Lilly Hunsdon ; and he brought with him to the king’s court 
no other than Duke de Montpensier. The Spaniard soon 
fascinated the ladies by his graceful, winning manners, and 
intelligent, easy conversation, showing marked attention to 
Lady Montague, wdiom he treated as an old friend. Tins 
lady, however, shunned his society, and, ere long, with the 
permission of the queen, retired to her home at St. Albans. 
Sir George even introduced the duke to the Monmouths; 
whose house was now visited by Reformers and Catholics, 
as Sir Humphrey had become sheriff of London. Both 
father and son were pleased with this new acquaintance, re- 
garding him as the most liberal of Catholics. But Edith felt 
a dislike to him, — she could hardly tell why, — and, on that 
account, was sometimes subjected to her brother’s good- 
natured ridicule. Hal still looked upon him as an enigma. 
He had received from him an explanation of the conversation 
in the garden, Zaida having informed him of Hal’s over- 
hearing it. The duke said he was questioning Father Forest 
in regard to the plot, that he might draw it from him, 
and then warn him against it ; but he found after they left 
the spot that it existed, for the most part, in the excited 
imagination of the good father, who was really opposed to 
anything of the kind. As to Hal’s parentage, he said he 
knew nothing about it, though he suspected that Cardinal 
Wolsey was once secretly married to a lady of high birth 
and Hal was the fi-uit. He promised to look into the matter. 
Yielding to the Spaniard’s pressing invitation, the young 
man agaifi frequented the court of Catherine, and was on 
intimate terms with Zaida. Indeed the duke was irresistible 
to almost everybody. Prominent men connected with both 


260 


TLLE BOY-LOLLABD. 


the Catholics and the Reformers, who were inclined to peace, 
admitted him to their counsels, thinking he might aid in 
effecting a reconciliation between the two parties. 

At this time there was an arrival at the Monmouths’ — 
that of no other than our old friend. Captain Loots, with 
his wife and daugliter. Although Antwerp enjoyed peculiar 
privileges, the Protestant portion of its inhabitants were 
falling victims to a terrible edict, according to which “ men 
were to be beheaded, women buried alive, and the relapsed 
burnt.” They were seized by the officers of the Inquisition, 
and woe to any in their relentless grasp. The place did not 
contain stancher friends of the Reformation than the cap- 
tain’s family. He himself had brought over to English 
shores more copies of Tyn dale’s New Testament than any 
other commander of a vessel. His wife opened her doors 
to more Protestants, unto whom, as they secretly gathered 
in little companies, Mr. Tyndale expounded the Scriptures, 
than any other woman. His daughter guided the steps of 
this good preacher, with his faithful ministries, to more 
of the poor and sick and suffering fugitives from England, 
than any one else. This excellent family knew they were 
in great peril, yet they did not flee till their leader’s arrest, 
and timely warning had been given them that they were to 
be the next victims. T!^e Monmouths were startled by the 
news they brought ; for Mr. Tyndale had seemed to bear a 
charmed life, and it had been hoped he would be able to 
translate the Old Testament, having already finished the 
Pentateuch and Jonah. 

Master Horton, not having ceased to keep his eye upon 
his former charge, took the opportunity when they w'ere 
alone to whisper in his ears, “ Beware of Montpensier ! He 
is a dark and an evil man.” 

“ I did suspect him once,” replied Hal ; “ but of late ” 

“ Of late,” interrupted the teacher, taking the words out 
of his mouth, “he hath plotted the foulest treachery in the 
arrest of Master Tyndale. It came from his brain, I trow.” 

Hal had heard the particulars, how Tyndale had been 


DESPETtATB. 


201 


betrayed by a professed friend. He did not venture to 
express his surprise, however ; but, prompted by fears for 
an innocent maiden linked to such a person, he murmured 
involuntarily, “Poor Zaida ! What can I do to save thee?” 

There was a significant smile on Master Horton’s face. 
“’Twould be wiser to say, ‘What can I do to save my- 
self from Montpensier and his niece ? ’ for they are one.” 

The young man colored, and replied quickly, “ Thou doest 
the lady injustice, I wis. She hath noble impulses.” 

“ Questionless,” replied the teacher, calmly. “Nathless, 
they are controlled by her uncle. The damsel is far below 
thee in intellect, being ignorant and superstitious ; and she 
is far above thee in rank, sith she is heir to the house of the 
Montpensiers, her uncle having no children. Depend upon 
it, he meaneth thee ill. He hopeth to draw thee through 
her into some insurrection, which will show itself eftsoons ; 
and, verily, I opine he is at the bottom of it, and an emis- 
sary of the pope and of Charles V.” 

Hal felt the warning of Master Horton. Ever since he 
had been received back to Catherine’s court he had seen 
more and more to perplex and displease him, though his 
symj^athy for the poor ex-queen, who was dying by inches, 
increased continually. Father Forest, the queen’s confessor, 
was evidently the ruling spirit, — a man whom he had 
always disliked and feared. The duke still retained some 
influence over the young man, though there were times 
when he was oppressed by doubts of his sincerity, to be, 
however, relieved of them by his pleasing and magnetic 
presence; and as his honeyed lips discoursed upon Spain, 
with its glorious chivalry, and especially the Montpensiers, 
whose estate, with its castle and garden, was romantically 
situated on the banks of the Tagus, his niece, now a proud 
heiress, looked more charming than ever. 

The wrath of the latter having cooled, she had received 
Hal back to her favor, and tried her powers of fascination 
anew. She did not succeed, however, in bringing him to 
her feet, as she did a host of other admirers. Yet he could 


262 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


not keep from her society, attracted thither by his old 
friendship and his increasing interest in her, as well as by a 
feeling he had that some great peril was hanging over her, 
and somehow he should be her deliverer. His professed 
attachment to Edith was still that of a brother to a sister. He 
had determined not to venture farther until he should learn 
of his parentage, which he hoped would soon come to liglit 
through the investigations of the duke. The Monmouths con- 
tinued to liave unbounded confidence in him, giving no heed 
to the report that he was enthralled by Catherine’s favorite 
maid-of-honor. Duke de Montpensier spoke to Hal in terms 
of admiration of the playful humor with which Sir Thomas 
More met his death. For, when the scaffold shook as he 
put his foot upon the ladder leading to it, he said to the 
lieutenant of the Tower, “ See me safe up ; for my coming 
down I can shift for myself.” When he noticed that the 
executioner was somewhat overcome by emotion, he re- 
marked to him, “Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not 
afraid to do thine office ; my neck is short, take heed there- 
fore tliat thou strike not awry for the saving of thine hon- 
esty.” When he tied a cloth around his eyes and laid his 
head upon the block, he motioned to the executioner to 
delay the stroke of the uplifted axe, saying, as he removed 
his beard, “ Pity that should be cut ; that has not committed 
treason.” “When I die,” said the duke, “let me thus 
submit to the inevitable.” 

Hal was reminded of the contrast afforded in the deaths 
of Frith and Bilney and others whom Sir Thomas had 
hated, but he said nothing. From the tenor of the duke’s 
conversation on this occasion he began to suspect that, 
rigid Catholic as he professed to be, he was really but a 
mocking infidel. His niece stood beside him, drinking in 
his words. Hal remembered Master Horton’s declaration 
that they were ope, and wished she might be separated 
from this dangerous man, and be placed under the instruc- 
tion of another than Father Forest. 

Sir Thomas More’s death was never a welcome theme to 


BESPEBATE. 


263 


the young man. It grieved him that the knight should, at 
such an awful moment, have been controlled by a stoical 
spirit. Still he was known to be one of those who ven- 
erated the knight’s memory. Often, with some of the 
noblemen of Catherine’s court, he walked over London 
Bridge, and with sad eyes looked at the head of Sir Thomas 
stuck upon a pole above him. Sometimes, accompanied by 
Edith, he visited Chelsea, and took Margaret back with 
them, her husband being absent on the king’s business, and 
sailed under the ghastly relic. It was said a transformation 
had taken place, and this attracted every day a multitude 
of spectators. The hairs, which were nearly gray before, 
were assuming a reddish or yellow hue. The people ex- 
claimed, “ a miracle ! ” Poor Margaret would raise her arms 
almost as though she was about to embrace her father 
restored to life. “ That head,” she once exclaimed, “ he 
laid many a time in my lap ; would to God it would fall 
into my lap as I pass under now ! ” When it had remained 
upon London Bridge fourteen days, as it was about to be 
throwm into the river by the guard, to make room for the 
others, she bought it of him. Hal and Edith were with her 
at the time. Alas ! the grisly object, for such it proved to 
be, was not her father ; and yet the wretched lady fondled it, 
weeping and lamenting all the way to Chelsea. The stony- 
hearted monarch, hearing what she had done, and of her 
intending to print her father’s works, sent her to prison. 
Hal was about to cast himself at the king’s feet and inter- 
cede for his old friend, when Master Horton, fixing his eyes 
upon him, said, — 

“ Dost wish thy head to be where Thomas More’s was ? 
The king would have wreaked his anger on thee an it had 
not been for love of thy singing. Keep thy mouth shut an 
thou wouldst not be accounted a traitor, for thou art already 
suspected. The king will relent ere long, I trow.” 

In a few months Margaret was released. 

Hal chanced to be passing Paul’s Cross when a large 
multitude, composed largely of the coarsest and most 


264 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


ignorant of the monks and priests, were listening with 
exclamations of approval to a violent declamation from 
a tall, dignified priest. Hal did not stop to listen, but the 
words came to his ear in tones of thunder, “We must 
root out printing, or printing will root out us.” The 
applause was wild, almost terrific. “We’ll make that our 
motto, reverend vicar of Croydon,” yelled a savage voice, 
“ gainsay it who dares.” 

Hal recognized the owner of the voice as the fighting 
friar. All expressions of dissent were frightened away by 
this douglity champion, who cliallenged to single combat 
any presuming to object. There was an insurrection in the 
fierce countenances around the young man, and well he 
knew the cause. It having been found by visitation that 
the monasteries sheltered not a little imposture and fraud, 
and gross licentiousness and unnatural vice, their numerous 
occupants were trembling in their shoes lest they should be 
turned adrift, and obliged to earn a living. Moreover, the 
numerous secular clergy, who were not much better, believed 
that their own doom would soon follow the overthrow of 
these hoary structures. 

Naturally these people hated Cranmer, and Latimer, and 
Anne Boleyn, and especially Cromwell, and even the king; 
and they only awaited leaders to attempt to overthrow the 
government and place the Lady Mary on the throne. 
There were men in Catherine’s court, and even in Henry’s, 
who, they thought, would be willing to put themselves at 
their head ; and they were often receiving sympathy and 
encouragement from abroad. A few wise men, especially 
Cromwell, were aware of the magnitude of the danger. 

In Hal s succeeding interviews witli Zaida, the maiden 
became more outspoken than ever. There was to be, she 
said, a rising of the people in behalf of the injured queen, 
and he must place himself under the guidance of her uncle. 
When she did not meet the response she expected, she 
stormed, of course. As he still refused to yield, she burst 
into tears. 


DESPERATE. 


265 


“What if this movement, dear Zaida, does not succeed?” 
inquired Hal. 

“ It will, it will,” she cried, her dark eyes brilliant with 
hope; “success is sure. Or, if it be not so, there is a 
delightful retreat on the banks of the Tagus,” — she fixed a 
soft, languishing look on Hal, — “and wealth, and fame, 
and love, and happiness.” 

The young man, with a flush of indignation on his ingen- 
uous face, gave a flat denial. 

A malignant glance shot from her eyes. “I wis who 
hath caused this,” she said. “ Dearly shall she rue it.” 

“ What meanest thou, Zaida ? ” he asked, trembling, fear- 
ful that some evil was designed against Edith Monmouth. 
But without deigning a reply she swept from the room. 

After this Hal saw Zaida several times, but rather for the 
purpose of saving her from the perils to which she Avas 
exposing herself. He even offered to secure a retreat for 
her in the Monmouth family. It became evident that they 
must separate. As he bade her adieu for the last time, the 
maiden manifesting some sorrow, Hal kissed her affection- 
ately. “ I am loth, dear Zaida,” he said, “ to leave thee to 
evil fortunes. Thy mistress, I wis, knoweth not of this 
movement.” 

Her proud stateliness at once returned, and she replied, 
“ Her highness is wholly ignorant of it.” Then, fixing on 
him a look of warning, “ Fear not for me, but take heed to 
thyself.” 

Hal had nearly reached London, and sent his servant 
ahead on some errand, when he was suddenly attacked by 
several horsemen. Drawing his sword, he wounded one of 
the ruffians, unhorsed another, and then, striking his spurs 
into his horse, he succeeded in making his escape. 

Hal knew that Cromwell had learned far more of the 
contemplated insurrection than himself. Moreover, the 
minister had not questioned him of late about his visits to 
Catherine’s court, and, as the lad thought, Cromwell eyed 
him at times suspiciously. Besides, he was fearful of harm- 


2G6 


THE BOT-LOLLARD. 


ing Zaida, and even her uncle, whose fascinating influence 
he could not yet wholly shake off. Therefore he kept his 
mouth closed for the 2:>resent in regard to what the maiden 
had revealed to him, though loyal to the core, and resolved 
to speak when necessity required. What perplexed him 
was the frequent jwesence of the duke at the king’s palace, 
freely passing in and out, on intimate terms with all the 
courtiers, and even admitted to private interviews with 
Cromwell. Could it be possible that wily statesman was 
deceived by him? With Hal he was as affable as ever, 
often conversing about the divisions amongst the people, 
laughing heartily at an uprising, which he said had only 
been suggested by womanish fears. But the young man 
was alarmed at seeing him often in the Monmouth family, 
and warned Christopher not to make a confidant of him. 
His friend, however, did not heed what he said. 

“I am charmed with the duke,” he replied. “If all 
Catholics were like him we should have no trouble. He is 
a good fellow, and as much of an antiquarian as I.” 

“Thou hast not shown him the treasures in thy box?” 
asked Hal, alarmed. It should be stated here, that box 
had received several valuable manuscripts since years ago 
we became acquainted with its contents. 

“ Why not? ” answered Christopher. “ He enjoyed them 
as much as myself.” 

Hal had no occasion for warning Edith, since she shunned 
him. Of all the lovers of a pure Gospel there was not 
probably one who had more correspondence with the Re- 
formers on English soil than she. Their places of hiding 
were known to her, and she sent letters of condolence to 
them, often containing money. If we could see some of 
her letters we should know what beautiful and intrepid 
spirits there were amongst the women of those times. 

Elizabeth Loots disliked the Spaniard as much as Edith 
Monmouth. The two maidens were kindred spirits, and 
yet they were unlike. Elizabeth was plump, robust, while 
Edith was slight, almost frail. The one was ardent, impet- 


DESPETtATE. 


267 


nous, fluent; the other mild, gentle, of few words. The 
face of the former was always aglow with sincerity and 
goodness; that of the latter was reserved unless aroused, 
when it had wondrous expression. There was less intellec- 
tuality in the Dutch girl than in the English, and yet she 
had quite as much executive power. It may be said she 
was to Holland what her companion was to England, only 
she had not such wealth at her command. She had run 
every risk in feeding, clothing, harboring, concealing 
Christ’s followers amongst her own countrymen. She could 
tell the whereabouts of Barnes, and Constantine, and other 
English Reformers who had interested themselves in the 
circulation of Holy Scripture while fugitives in Holland, — 
men whom prominent English ecclesiastics would consign 
to the flames if they could but get them in their power. 
Not a j^ious fugitive secreted himself in Antwerp but some- 
how she tracked him, and saw that he was cared for, physi- 
cally as well as spiritually, by the good peoifle there. It 
was marvelous how she did so much, and then how she 
escaped the dreadful fate which she knew some priests had 
determined for her, but only bided their time, — that of 
being buried alive. Mrs. Loots was a briglit, cheerful, 
social woman, in sympathy with everything that was good, 
and congenial company for Lady Monmouth. As to the 
captain, when he was at home, he sat apparently immovable, 
impassive, between his wife and daughter, like a huge 
boulder amid the waves. 

Hal saw more and more in the Dutchman to admire. 
Beneath that unpromising exterior there was not only firm 
princiifle, but clear intelligence, discriminating judgment, 
and tender feeling. His wife, who was not so strong a 
character, did not always understand him; his daughter 
did, however, and she was quick to resent any ridicule 
excited by his peculiarities. There was one thing Captain 
Loots could not forget, and for which he could not forgive 
himself, — his humiliation in the streets of London and in St. 
Paul’s Church. It was to him equivalent to a recantation of 


268 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


his sentiments. His usually im|jassive face would be visited 
sometimes by great sadness, while tears coursed down his 
cheeks; though he would say nothing, unless, once in a 
great while, “ I denied my Lord.” 

“But, dearest father,” Elizabeth Would say, “you were 
tried grievously, as Peter was, meseems ; and you, like him, 
have been forgiven, since the Lord hath commissioned you 
to a work that will bear comparison with his, for who hath 
brought over to England so much Scripture as you, father?” 
But the poor man would only shake his head and moan, 
refusing to be comforted. How many at that time, who 
had been frightened into recantation by threats of the fire, 
were wretched until they confessed and accepted their 
doom. The whole Scripture sounded their, condemnation, 
as it did Bilney’s for a time, and its comforting passages 
pierced their hearts with anguish. 

Hal was seated with Edith, deeply engrossed in study, 
when word came to him to repair at once to the palace to 
the private apartment of Cromwell. Edith looked anxious. 
“ I trust this bodeth no harm,” she said. “ It is long sithence 
Lord Cromwell hath sent for thee.” “ Fear not for me,” he 
replied, “ questionless his grace hath some service he wisheth 
me to perform.” Though his words W'ere cheery, the young 
man did not enter the presence of the minister and kneel 
before him without trepidation. It, however, was speedily 
dissipated by the smile with which the minister greeted him. 
Hal was to bear a written message with all speed to the 
abbey at St. Albans. “It is something,” said Cromwell, 
“ requiring despatch, and so I sent for thee.” Evidently if 
he distrusted Hal before he did not now. Perhaps he 
knew that Hal had not for months visited Catherine’s court. 
Perhaps Master Horton had spoken a few good words for 
his former pupil. Whatever was tlie reason for the change 
in Cromwell’s mind toward Hal — if a change there had been 
— it was enough for him to know that the minister still con- 
fided in him, and he left his presence with a light heart. 
Passing by Newgate prison he noticed that its gates had just 


DESPERATE, 


269 


been opened to receive some prisoners, the not uncommon 
sight having drawn together an unusual crowd. Pausing to 
see who they might be, his heart sunk within him as Captain 
Loots walked into the prison, handcuffed, with a man on 
each side of him; then Christopher, alike secured and 
guarded; then Elizabeth Loots and Edith Monmouth, the 
former partly supporting the latter, under the charge of two 
men, one of whom was Gripe. As the gates were closing, 
Edith turned her face around as though to bid farewell to 
the world ; it bore that heroic look which Hal had seen 
before several times. On recognizing him, another look of 
affection and tearful regret flitted across her face. For a 
single instant there was communion of hearts, and then he 
saw her no more. As the poor youth gazed in speechless 
agony at the walls enclosing Edith and Christopher Mon- 
mouth he could hardly believe it was not all a terrible dream. 
He had had no fears of late in regard to the safety of Sir 
Christopher Monmouth’s family. He doubted not that Duke 
de Montpensier had been plotting their ruin, and, it may be, 
had secured it already. He would save them if possible. 
He would intercede with Cromwell. He would intercede 
with the king, whatever might be the consequences. He 
would love to die for sweet Edith and Christopher. But it 
was foolish for him to remain idly gazing at yon pile of piti- 
less stone. The errand upon which he was sent required the 
utmost haste ; and so he dashed forward, his servant finding 
it difficult to keep up with him. 

It was evening ere they came into the vicinity of the 
Abbey of St. Albans. For some time a tall horseman, clothed 
in complete armor, not far in advance of them on the same 
road, had been riding as rapidly as themselves. As he 
seemed to be abstracted, and oblivious of their presence, 
they made no effort to overtake him. Suddenly he was 
attacked by three men on horseback. Hal, accompanied by 
his servant, flew to his relief. The leader of the three assail- 
ants turned furiously upon Hal, aiming a blow that brought 
him bleeding and senseless to the ground. The tall horseman, 


270 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


who, assisted by Hal’s servant, had wounded and driven 
away the otliers, now attacked tlie leader and ran his sword 
through his body. The whole affair occupied but a moment. 
Then another man rushed upon the scene. The tall horse- 
man called him by name, and the latter responded with 
exclamations of surprise and joy. 

“No more, good Dick,” said the former, “but take care of 
these wounded men. I have been attacked by assassins, one 
of whom lies liere. The other is a youth who came to my 
defence. Ah ! thou knowest him. I ho23e he is not badly 
hurt. Go instantly and get help while I remain here. But 
let not my lady hear aught of this, or of my arrival, at pres- 
ent. Nay, good Dick, fear not to leave me. The other 
assassins will not return, I warrant thee, to have another 
taste of my good sword, and that of the servant of this 
young man.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A NEW REVELATION. 


Deep joys and griefs to the same issue come ; 
Thus murmur shallow brooks, the deep are dumb. 


Sib Walter Raleigh. 



HEN Hal recovered consciousness he found himself 


V V on a bed in an elegantly furnished room, in which 
was Lady Montague with a few attendants, one of whom 
was Dick Braynton. She smiled affectionately as he opened 
his eyes, and said, — 

“ Thou hast been wounded, but not so badly as we 
feared.” 

“Ah me, the letter!” exclaimed Hal, thinking first of 
Cromwell’s errand. 

“ The letter is safe in the hands of the abbot of the abbey,” 
said the lady. “ It was borne to him by thy servant witli 
scarce a moment’s delay.” 

“Alas, that I should lie here,” he exclaimed again, “when 
Christopher and Edith Monmouth are in prison ! ” 

Lady Montague looked surprised, but replied, “Trouble 
not thyself, they will soon be released.” 

A gentleman entered, whom Hal recognized at once, from 
his peculiar dignity of mien, as the tall gentleman in the late 
encounter. “ Thou hast saved my life,” said he, “ and the 
villain thought he had made thee lose thine for thy interfer- 
ence. But he was mistaken. The sword, aimed at thy heart, 
glanced without inflicting a mortal wound. God be praised 
for sparing us both from his bloodthirsty treachery ! ” 

Hal noticed that Lady Montague’s face was lighted up 
with rapturous gratitude. No more conversation was held 
with him, however, at the time; as it was deemed best he 


271 


272 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


should be kej^t quiet. He could not help wondering who the 
tall gentleman could be, but supposed he was Lady Mon- 
tague’s brother, who he had heard was connected with the 
army, and had not been in England for several years. She 
made no explanation during her gentle nursing of him day 
after day, even though the tall gentleman often looked in 
upon him, as well as the faithful Dick. 

But when he was able to sit up, he was surprised and de- 
lighted to hear her say that this same gentleman was no 
other than her husband. Lord Montague. “ Since thou 
bearest this news so well,” she continued, “ I will venture to 
tell thee more. The chief assassin, who hath since died, 
was Duke de Montpensier.” Hal expressed amazement, ex- 
claiming, “ Poor Zaida, what will become of thee! ” He was 
so sad and melancholy that she said nothing further, although 
a secret was evidently laboring at her breast, and she treated 
him with a peculiar affection which, while it was exceedingly 
grateful to him, was strange and inexplicable. 

“ Canst thou, sweet one,” she asked the next day, “ bear 
news more wonderful than any thou hast yet heard ? ” 

“ Ay, dear lady,” replied Hal. Noticing the joyful expres- 
sion on her face, he inquired, “ Are Christopher and Edith 
Monmouth, with Captain Loots and his daughter, released 
from prison?” 

Not yet, though, I trow, they will be eftsoons,” she an- 
swered. “ ’Twas that arch-villain and hypocrite that put 
them there. A traitor’s doom awaited him had he not fallen 
by the sword of my husband. He was doubtless awarev 
Lord Montague brought intelligence to the government 
touching all his plots. But I have other news for thee. 
Dost think, my sweet boy, thou canst love any one as thou 
dost Lady Monmouth, and as thou didst Lady Templeton of 
whom I have heard?” 

“ There is one, dear lady, whom I could love more,” replied 
Hal, fervently, “ my own mother.” 

“ I am about to make her known to thee,” said she, look- 
ing fondly upon him. 


A NBIV Bi;VIJLATIOJV'. 


273 


Hal’s heart beat with a wild joy, and he cried, “ Oh, where 
is she ? Say it is thy sister, sith I mind me of what thou 
didst tell Sir Thomas More ! Say it is any one that re- 
sembleth thee, and I will bless thee ! ” 

“I soon learned thou wast not my sister’s child,” said 
Lady Montague, and tlien, in an irrepressible burst of tender- 
ness, she threw her arms around him, and clasping him to 
her bosom, exclaimed, “My dear, darling boy! no longer 
dead but living ! my own good, beautiful boy 1 I, I am tliy 
mother ! ” 

Hal fainted. 

He recovered from his swoon to find himself supported by 
Lady Montague, while Dick Braynton was sprinkling water 
upon his face. Her looks of alaiun changed to those of joy; 
and, as Dick left the room, she said, “ I feared, my son, 
that I had killed thee by my imprudence. I should have 
waited longer, had not the impulses of my heart impelled 
me.” 

“ My sweet mother,” replied Hal, “ I should have fainted 
as foolishly, I trow, an I had been in full strength. Blame 
not thyself for pouring into my soul such a flood of joy. 
Thou couldst not have prevented it at any time from being 
sudden and overwhelming. Thou my mother ! ” 

The two remained silent for several moments, their looks 
and embraces, full of maternal and filial tenderness, being 
more expressive than words. It was the meeting of a moth- 
er with a son, rudely torn from her in infancy, — as she sup- 
posed, murdered ; of a son with a mother, for whom he had 
been vainly looking so long, hoping more and more feebly 
against hope. 

At length he said, “ The mystery hanging over my birth 
hath ever been a source of trouble and mortification to me. 
For many years, as thou kennest, sweet mother, I have been 
the reputed son of Cardinal Wolsey. I feared, and was in 
constant dread of discovering, that it might prove true ; 
and that the woman who had the care of me amongst the 
gypsies was my mother. I can hardly believe that such hap- 


274 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


piiiess is mine.” He could say no more, and Lady Montague 
was unable to speak. 

But soon he murmured, “At last I am at home.” 

“ Ay, poor, sweet dove,” she replied, softly, “ after all thy 
wanderings, though thou liast alway kept thyself pure, and 
been faithful to Gospel teachings learned from others than 
myself. I bless God that thou art what I besought Him, 
when thou wast an infant in my arms, thou mightest be- 
come. My prayer hatli been answered, tliough in a different 
way from what I expected.” She then gave him for sub- 
stance the following intelligence. 

In 1525 Lord Montague, with a servant, was returning on 
horseback from a conference with some German barons to 
whom he had been sent by Wolsey. He had been traveling 
several days with Duke de Montpensier, but the day before 
he had separated from the Spanisli nobleman, upbraiding 
him for his duplicity and treachery, his lordship’s servant 
having overheard the duke plotting with some priests 
against King Henry at an inn where they had spent the 
preceding night. Lord Montague and his servant were 
now making their way toward Antwei*p, when they were 
suddenly attacked by a gang of ruffians, the servant killed. 
Lord Montague taken prisoner and borne to the Castle of 
Vilvorde, which was not far away. There he remained 
secretly confined year after year, though occasionally re- 
ceiving favors from the keeper and his family^ Lady Mon- 
tague and his lordship’s brother at Antwerp did not dream 
of his being so near them. When Tyndale was arrested he 
was brought to this castle. Lord Montague, however, was 
not allowed to see him, nor to leave the cell at all, though 
Tyndale had many visitors. 

One day the keeper came into his cell, and, falling at his 
feet, besought his forgiveness, as he had been illegally im- 
prisoned at Duke de Montpensier’s command. “I dared 
not disobey him,” he said, “ sith he was the Queen of Eng- 
land’s favorite, and intimate witli the emperor withal; and 
now I release your lordsliij). Would I could undo all the 


A BBVBLATIOJ^. 


275 


villany I have committed by doing his bidding against thee 
and eke other good men.” The poor man burst into tears. 

“What hath wrought this change in thee?” asked his 
prisoner, amazed 

“ The instructions of that good man, Master Tyndale,” 
was the reply, — “though he kenneth not of thy confine- 
ment liere, — which have been blessed to my conversion, I 
trust, and that of my daughter, and of other membjrs of 
my household.” 

“But fearest thou not the duke’s vengeance?” asked 
Lord Montague. The keeper trembled. “Nathless,” con- 
tinued his lordship, “I may deprive him of the power of 
executing it.” The keeper then informed him of the insur- 
rection brewing in England, assuring him that the duke 
was one of the chief instigators, and had at times met 
some of the conspirators at that very castle. 

As soon as Lord Montague arrived in London he visited 
the court, which was at York Place. The king, amazed to 
see him, gave him a cordial welcome ; but on learning that 
he had not yet been home, though gratified with his loy- 
alty, Henry cried, “ Why, man, hie thee to thy lady.” But 
Lord Montague still remained upon his knees, declaring 
that he brought news touching an insurrection, in which 
the Spanish nobleman, Duke de Montpensier, was engaged. 
“ Ha ! ” exclaimed the king, “ dare he, and come into my 
presence! Further matter for Lord Cromwell. He is 
absent from court, but thou canst see him to-morrow at the 
Abbey of St. Albans, where he hath sent word he is then to 
meet the commissioners, who are visiting the convents. So 
hie thee to thy lady.” 

Upon the person of the duke were found several treason- 
able communications; also a letter to him, written by his 
sister, who had eloped with a gypsy. It was full of peni- 
tence, telling her brother that she left her daughter to his 
care, and revealing the parentage of Hal. It appeared that 
the child of Lord and Lady Montague had not been mur- 
dered by the thieves, as his parents believed from the testi- 


276 


THE BOY-LOLLARB. 


rnony of one of them, who charged it upon the rest, prob- 
ably in the hope of being released, though he was hung 
with the others. The female servant who had him in 
charge carried him off to the gypsies, one of whom she 
married. As the band at first feared they might be sus- 
pected of the theft, the child and nurse were transported 
to Bristol, where they found a home for a time, and then 
were r^'ceived back. 

Hal asked if the duke was conscious after lie fell. His 
mother replied that he was, though then breathing his last. 
Her husband, removing the helmet, discovered who he was, 
and when Dick, who had just returned, reminded him of 
the awful presence into which he was going, he smiled 
mockingly. He just articulated the name “Zaida,” and 
died, apparently trying to leave some message for her. 

“ An he loved her,” said Hal, partly to himself, “ meseems 
he was not wholly bad.” 

“ I have heard of her oft,” his mother said. “ She is that 
bewitching young lady. Lady Catherine’s favorite maid-of- 
honor, I trow. I suspect it is she who hath been hovering 
about here in disguise sithence thou wast wounded, and 
inquiring diligently after tliee.” 

Hal’s face reddened, but looked deeply interested. 

Lady Montague smiled, though an anxious expression 
visited her eyes for an instant. “ I trow, I understand thy 
relation to her,” she continued. “Pardon me, my son, thou 
kennest thou art Hal no longer, but Julian Montague, the 
sole heir of a noble family. I wis thou hast not pledged 
thy troth to this maiden. I need not say it, methinks.” 

“Sweet mother,” replied Julian, for by that name we 
must now call him, “ I have j^ledged my troth to none.” 

Lady Montague looked pleased, and kissed him fondly, 
saying, “ At present thou belongest only to me and to thy 
honored father.” 

Julian’s interview with his father, which soon followed, 
was almost as impressive as that which we have just wit- 
nessed. Lord Montague was a quiet, reserved man, of 


A JVEIV BEVBLATIO]^. 


277 


rather stern demeanor. When he embraced Julian, the 
tears rolled down his cheeks, and he could only exclaim, 
“ My son, my son, my long-lost son ! ” 

Dick Braynton gave Julian a glad welcome, calling him, 
“ my young master,” with a new meaning. “ I always told 
you,” he said, “ you would find your parents, but I did not 
dream they would be Lord and Lady Montague.” Jack 
Braynton, his son, capered about in a paroxysm of joy. 
Their little cottage was not far from Montague Hall, and 
there Julian spent a part of his time very happily. He 
found that the sister of Dick, with whom the latter lived, 
was of the same sturdy character with himself. 

One day Julian was delighted at the sight of the round, 
laughing face of Christopher. “ We were released but yes- 
terday,” he said, “ and I have come as soon as possible to 
give my congratulations to my whilom friend, Hal, to the 
present Master Julian Montague, to the future Lord Mon- 
tague, though long may his honored father live to bear that 
title.” Julian expressed his surprise and pleasure that the 
privations of a prison had not taken away aught of his 
flesh. “Not a bit of it,” he rei^lied, “especially after I 
knew of that villain’s death, which I rejoiced over as indi- 
cating our speedy deliverance. Had I heeded thee we 
should have escaped the prison altogether.” “ Is Mistress 
Edith in as good condition as thou ? ” “ Ay, Master Julian, 

though angels have not quite as much flesh. We were all 
confined in a room together, with some cells leading out of 
it. The day after our arrest some ill-favored wretches 
brought a rack which two solemn-looking priests that fol- 
lowed them averred we should, if obstinate, not only look 
at but feel. Without waiting for an answer they threat- 
ened Edith that unless she disclosed all she knew about 
certain persons they would wrench limb from limb. 
Whereat her face, which had been slightly pale, shone with 
supernatural courage ; and Elizabeth Loots planted herself 
between my sister and them, and speedily looked those 
craven priests out of countenance. Then, by their orders. 


278 


TUE BOY-LOLLARD. 


the captain was seized and bound to tlie rack. Plis agony 
was fearful, but not a word, not even a groan, could they 
extort from him. Poor Elizabeth was almost beside herself, 
kneeling before the i^riests, and beseeching them to spare 
her father and put herself in his place, sith she carried 
secrets that he did not ; while Edith wiped the sweat 
streaming from his face, and spake comforting passages in 
his ear, not one of his tormentors daring to chide or touch 
her. They would have killed him, I verily believe, an the 
jailor had not entered and whispered to the ecclesiastics, 
when the torture ceased, and they and their myrmidons 
left. Questionless, the jailor brought the news of Duke de 
Montpensier’s death. After his plottings were made 
known from the information thy father brought, from pa- 
pers found on his person, and from confessions of confed- 
erates, — amongst whom were these same solemn-looking 
priests, who had to taste the rack themselves, — the king 
ordered our release. There is not in the realm a more dan- 
gerous man than was Montpensier. After seating the Lady 
Mary on the throne he hoped to make a big bonfire of the 
Ileformers here, and take some of them to Spain with him, 
to grace one of its autos-da-fe. Amongst these most 
highly-honored ones were to be the Monmouth family. Cap- 
tain Loots’s family, and thine. Ha, ha, ha ! mayhap he was 
to spare thy mother for a worse fate, — to marry him, sith I 
understand he offered his hand to her before thy father did, 
and was refused. Pardon me, Hal, or Julian ; I am only 
telling thee what is in everybody’s mouth, though it seems 
to have been forgotten till now : the duke was a favorite of 
Queen Catherine in early days, and thy mother would have 
been compelled to marry him had not thy father, who was a 
favorite of the king, interceded for her, and won the prize 
for himself.” 

A little while after Christopher’s visit came the news of 
Catherine’s death, and a letter directed to Julian, which was 
put into Dick’s hand by a stranger. Opening it he read as 
follows ; — 


A JVEIV Bi:VELATIOJV 


279 


Master Julian Montague. 

My Old Friend, — I leave for Spain to-morrow, and so I 
send you now my farewell. My uncle is dead, my sweet 
mistress, the queen, is no more, and there is no other tie to 
bind me to England. Where, then, should I go but to the 
early home of my mother ? I was sorry when I heard of thy 
wound, and rejoice that thou art fast recovering from it. I 
congratulate thee that thou hast found thy parents, of whose 
existence I solemnly swear I was ignorant. I was taught to 
call Duke Lee and his wife thy father and mother, though I 
soon began to share thy suspicion that they were not thus 
related to thee ; and of late my uncle hath hinted to me, 
under an injunction of secrecy, that thou art of high Eng- 
lish birth. Meseems, had it not been for Edith Monmouth, 
that simple, weak creature, there would have been no breach 
between us ; I should have enlisted thy sympathies in the 
good cause, and thou wouldst have come to thy estate in 
time. Alas, my uncle ! I shed many tears at the thought 
that I shall never see him again. I greet that it was thy 
father’s hand that slew him, while I greet that my uncle 
wounded thee. I long to save thee from thy fate, Hal, — 
Master Julian Montague, — but let Edith Monmouth and 
her brother perish. Remember I warned thee of them, and 
of that bad woman ye all worship. She with her slaves will 
fall, and that virtuous lady, daughter of my dear, lamented 
mistress, will rise, and be as much blessed as that miscalled 
queen is cursed of heaven and earth. [Thus far the writing 
had been careful, even stiff; but now several lines in the 
gypsy language were scratched excitedly, and then almost 
entirely blotted out. The Avriter, regaining her composure, 
thus ended her epistle] : Thy family, dear Hal — Julian — 
is noble ; nathless, is not equal to mine on my mother’s side, 
and eke my father’s, who descended from kings in the East. 
I go to the estate of the Montpensiers, and to my father, who 
is in Spain. Foolish boy, thou kennest not what thou hast 
lost ! But let us not wholly forget each other. Adieu. 

Zaida de Montpensier. 


280 


THE BOY-LOLLARD, 


As soon as Julian was able to bear the journey, Lord and 
Lady Montague took him with them to court, where the 
king expressed congratulations and kind wishes, as did also 
the queen. Everybody was clad in mourning, according to 
the king’s command, for the death of Catlierine, — every- 
body but Anne. While she openly rejoiced, Henry looked 
sad and displeased. 

“Alas, how has his majesty changed!” exclaimed Lord 
Montague, on their return. “ lie is still my gracious lord, 
but he seemeth not to me as formerly.” 

Lady Montague sighed. “Methinks I saw his highness 
frown upon the queen, who hath disobeyed the royal order. 
Oh, let her highness beware how she crosseth him ! ” 

The next day, as Julian was walking from Dick’s cottage 
to Montague Hall, a woman, breathless with running and 
fright, fell at his feet beseeching his protection. Ragged, 
her hair dishevelled, it took him several moments, though 
aided by a few decayed and bedraggled relics of finery on 
her person, and glimpses of a face still handsome in spite of 
the disfigurement of frequent weepings, to recognize the 
nurse. When he had readily promised all she desired, he 
gathered, from the rather incoherent account she gave, what 
had befallen her. The fighting friar, attacking Lee when off 
his guard and suffering the effects of late encounters with 
others, had come off victorious. Lee, partly of liis wounds, 
and partly of mortification that his reputation as a pugilist 
had received so deep a stain, died soon after. Those that 
remained of the gypsy band avenged their leader by waylay*- 
ing the friar and killing him. Since then they had been 
hunted down by the authorities, some slain, others taken 
and hung, while a few, in various disguises, escaped from the 
country. She herself avoided capture almost as by a miracle, 
being pursued from place to place to St. Albans. Her hus- 
band, for years before his death, had treated her with great 
cruelty, and if a way had been opened she would liave left 
him. Growing more uneasy after the arrival of Lady Mon- 
tague at court, and longing to see her, and say that her boy 




281 . 


was alive and no other than the king’s favorite singer, the 
suspicion of Lee was aroused. He threatened to take her 
life if she once thought of revealing the secret of Julian’s 
birth, and thus, as he said, betray them to the gorgios ; so 
that she was in an almost constant state of terror. Julian’s 
affection for her, which he had always retained, revived ; and 
Lord and Lady Montague, at his intercession, received her 
back into the household as servant. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


CHANGES, 


He that dieth with honour liveth forever, 
And the defamM dead recovereth never. 


Anon. 


i Lord Montague’s long imprisonment had seriously im- 



paired his health he was unable to attend court. He 
therefore sent his son, who — no longer the sweet singer, but 
the handsome young nobleman — received a flattering re- 
ception from the queen’s beautiful maids-of-honor, especially 
Lady Lilly Hunsdon. The habiliments of mourning for 
the ex-queen had been exchanged for a round of festivities. 
But she who had refused to put on the former had now no 
heart for the latter. Her lately born, dead son had bitterly 
disappointed the king, who passionately desired male off- 
spring. Her beauty was faded, her liveliness gone, and she 
ceased to win the fickle royal admiration. Certain indiscre- 
tions were magnified in the ear of one who could be as 
brutal as he had been affectionate, and who began to show 
alarming signs of jealousy. She could but sit silent and sad 
amid her maidens, thinking, perhaps, of the pious solitude 
of Hever Castle which she had exchanged for a throne. 
Julian now often visited the Monmouths, and saw Edith in 
the presence of her father and mother. Her sisterly ease of 
manner was changed to grave courtesy, and her blue eyes, 
still full of kindly interest, were veiled in silent modesty. 
With the exception of Master Horton’s society, which Julian 
prized more highly than ever, — though that far-seeing man 
had been human enough to err in regard to his parentage, — 
he cared little for the court. The ladies were continually 
beseeching him to sing the popular songs, in which he did 


282 


CHANGES. 


283 


not take much delight ; and the king was proud of hearing 
his sonnets, as Julian’s fine voice gave them expression, 
though the compositions did not always commend themselves 
to his taste. At length, satisfied from his mother’s letters 
that his father was slowly declining, he obtained from Henry 
an unwilling permission to return home. Entering the Mon- 
mouth mansion, and passing into the private parlor, he found 
Edith alone. She gave him a bright smile of welcome as he 
took a seat by her side. 

“ It is pleasant to see thee come in as erst when thou wast 
my teacher,” she said. 

“ Would that I were thy teacher now ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Nay, Master Julian, thou hast other and higher work. 
How much thou must enjoy the society of that lovely mother, 
whom thou hast found at length after so much sorrowful and 
despairing seeking ! But she is worth it all.” 

“ Ay, sweet Edith, and infinitely more. But I can never 
repay the debt of gratitude I owe ye all ; and especially to 
thee, who hath been to me all that is good and pure.” 

“I do not deserve such praise,” was the modest rej^ly; 
“ nathless, I have been to thee a sister,” and she gave him 
her hand while her blue eyes beamed with affection. 

“O be to me more than sister!” he cried, as he pressed 
the hand held out to him, “something nearer, dearer.” 

A look of tenderness came to her eyes, which was, how- 
ever, succeeded by one of alarm, and she gently disengaged 
her hand, and said, “ Nay, Master Julian, speak not thus ; thy 
sister I will be alway, but I must not be more than that.” 

Julian, with some impetuosity, spoke of his love for her ; 
— how, before finding his parents, he had not dared whisper 
it, but now he must declare it or die. It had kept, restrained, 
and guided him through many years. He had longed to ask 
for a reciprocation of it, but did not, lest he should seem to 
take advantage of the trust reposed in him by her parents. 
He would have cast himself at her feet had she not for- 
bidden him. 

“Pardon me, Master Julian, though I thank thee for thy 


284 


TUE BOY-LOLLAED. 


unworthy preference. This conversation must not continue, 
and there must be no demonstrations. There are beautiful 
damsels in the brilliant society to wliich thou hast just been 
introduced, who will welcome thine addresses and who are 
worthy of thee withal. I will not impose upon thy igno- 
rance ; — forgive me, Hal — Master Julian — that I S2)eak thus 
plainly ; — I will not wrong Lord and Lady Montague, wlio 
expect their son and heir to look higher than to make an 
alliance between their family and ours ; and I will not dis- 
regard the warning our family have once received by en- 
couraging the attentions of one so far suj^erior to me in 
rank.” 

Julian was about answering her, when she checked him: 
“Pardon me, my old friend, but this interview must not be 
protracted longer. I should not dare look Lady Montague 
in the face. What a splendid career is before you. Master 
Julian, with your rank, and talent, and culture, and j^iety ! ” 
Her eyes kindled with enthusiasm as she went on : “ What 
an impetus thou canst give to the good cause ! The noble- 
men in sympathy with it are too few. I rejoice in what thou 
mayst do for England and the world.” 

“ With thee by my side, sweet Edith, and working with 
me,” replied he, fervently. 

Edith' attempted to speak, but her voice faltered. She 
leaned her face upon her hands. In a moment, however, she 
raised her head, with the tears in her eyes, and that heroic 
look on her brow. “ Let this conversation be never renewed. 
Master Julian. Let it be forgotten ; farewell.” She spoke in 
a trembling though decided tone, and held out her hand to 
J ulian, which he kissed devoutly. He then took his departure. 

One thing our hero knew, — that Edith Monmouth loved 
him. And the thought was bliss to him. But there was 
another thing he knew that cast a shadow over the bliss, — 
that Edith Monmouth would never consent to marry him or 
even to listen again to words such as he had just uttered, 
without the hearty approval of his parents, and a full convic- 
tion on her own part that a union between persons so widely 


CHANGES. 


285 


separated in rank would be for tlie best. That heroic look 
implied that she could be tormented by the rack of affection 
and still be true to her convictions of duty. If Julian could 
have seen her, a few moments after on her knees in her 
chamber, and heard her sighs and jdeadings, and seen her 
look as she rose, he would not have doubted her strong affec- 
tion, and that she had conquered in her struggle with it. 
But could Julian gain the consent of his parents ? He had 
no doubt that they wanted him to marry one of his own 
rank, and she was no other than Lady Lilly Hunsdon. 

Lady Lilly was the only child of Lord Hunsdon, whose 
estate was contiguous to that of Lord Montague. The two 
noblemen, in early life, had been warm friends ; had married 
at about the same time ; and were in substantial accord in 
regard to the Reformation; — believing that Henry w’as, 
under God, to lead the nation from papal darkness into 
Gos23el light, and had followed the manifest will of Heaven 
in renouncing Catherine, who represented the former, for 
Anne, who represented the latter. Lord Montague had seen 
Lady Lilly, and, like everybody else, had been charmed with 
her. He thought that no more fitting wife than the daughter 
of his friend could be found. Lady Montague, however, had 
been too familiar with the court to think that the king was 
generally guided by other than his own passions, and that the 
queen’s favorite maid-of-honor was without faults. Never- 
theless, she prayed and hoped for Henry that he might listen 
to Cranmer and Latimer and other good men, and do the 
work which God had put into his hands ; and she prayed for 
Lady Lilly, that with her amiableness and beauty and many 
accomplishments, she might be wholly devoted to the good 
cause, and thus become,' in all respects, a suitable life com- 
panion for her son. 

Julian while returning home regretted that he had not 
made known to his parents his feelings toward Edith Mon- 
mouth. He resolved to do so without delay. But the con- 
dition of his father forbade. From the time of his arrival 
Lord Montague grew worse rapidly. He was able to say 


286 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


but little to bis son, save giving some directions in regard to 
the estate, which was soon to fall into his hands. Lord and 
Lady Hunsdon were frequent visitors in the sick-room. One 
day they were accompanied by their daughter. Lady Lilly. 
She had returned home, bringing the startling news, that 
the queen, and several gentlemen — one of whom was her 
own brother — had been arrested under the charge of crim- 
inal intimacy. Lady Montague’s fears were at last more 
than realized. Lord Montague was shocked; but Lord 
Hunsdon assured him that as the queen was doubtless inno- 
cent the king would speedily release her, and take vengeance 
on her enemies. At Lord Montague’s request. Lady Lilly 
was often at his bedside, for by her sympathy and pleasing 
manners she ingratiated herself into his affection more and 
more. 

Lord Montague, when there was no one in the room but 
Julian, spoke of Lady Lilly, and after having made con- 
siderable effort to rally his strength, said that his son and 
Lady Lilly had been affianced to each other in their cradles 
by their parents, on this condition, however: that when, at 
a time selected by their parents, the mutual pledge should 
be made known to the children, it should not be binding on 
them if either had made a previous engagement. He told 
Julian he trusted the old-time friendship between the two 
families would thus culminate in a union of the heir of the 
one with the heiress of the other; a union that would not 
only bless the parties to it, but be a source of blessing to the 
church and the world. Julian would have ventured a word 
of expostulation had not Lady Lilly and his mother at that 
moment entered the room. Their faces indicated to the sick 
man that some terrible event had occurred, and he mur- 
mured, “What is it, my love?” His wife evaded a direct 
answer. But as he persisted, she told him that the queen, 
with five gentlemen, had been executed. “ There is some- 
thing more,” he whispered. “Ay, the king hath married 
Lady Jane Seymour.” He was silent for some time, and 
then whispered with a sigh, “ The poor lady must have been 


CHANGES, 


287 


guilty, and it was for reasons of state his majesty married 
so speedily. Is the new queen in sympathy with the Refor- 
mation?” Lady Lilly replied in the affirmative. “Bless 
God ! ” he said aloud. After this he lingered several days, 
saying but little except while apparently engaged in prayer 
for king and country, for Tyndale and Luther and other 
eminent Reformers. At length, reviving, he looked up, 
smiled affectionately upon his wife, grasped the hands of 
Julian and Lady Lilly, joining them together. He then be- 
came unconscious, and in a few moments breathed his last. 

For several months the new Lord Montague remained 
constantly at home, his affairs there requiring his strict and 
unremitting attention. Dick Braynton proved an invaluable 
aid to him. He learned to 2>rize more and more the society 
of Lord and Lady Hunsdon, who were high-minded, religious 
people. His admiration increased from day to day for the 
charms and accomplishments of Lady Lilly, for whenever 
she was in his presence she set them off by every means in 
her power. But Lady Lilly’s religious character did not 
please him. He saw that though she was on the side of the 
Reformation politically, she had read but little of the writ- 
ings of the Reformers, and was not at all familiar with the 
Scriptures. Her parents and Lady Montague noticed with 
pain this separation between them ; but thought it would be 
transient, as she might be won by him to a better way, and 
so they encouraged their being often together. 

“ Thou hast been solidly trained by circumstances, dear 
Julian,” said his mother.' “Not so Lady Lilly. An only 
cliild, the heiress of great possessions, she hath had her own 
way and been much flattered. Influence her as thou canst, 
sith she loveth thee, and she will come out all right with 
her true woman’s heart, I trow.” Lady Montague felt 
troubled that her son did not seem in love with her, and, so 
far as she could learn, had made no protestations of affec- 
tion ; and that Lady Lilly welcomed and delighted to fasci- 
nate the young nobles, Avho, attracted by her beauty, often 
visited the Hunsdon mansion. Yet how could it be other- 


288 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


wise, she thought, with one who had been sung in verse by 
all the poets and would-be poets that thronged the court! 

Lord Montague at last opened his heart to his mother. 
He had refj*ained heretofore, partly from a reserve inherited 
from his father, and partly, since the latter’s death, from a 
delicate regard for his mother in the first shock of her be- 
reavement. Lady Montague was distressed for her son, 
whose affections impelled him one w^ay and whose sense of 
honor another, — although he could not help asking him- 
self how he could be responsible for a covenant in the 
makins: of which he had had nothing to do. Such a cov- 
enant was not uncommon in those times. When the for- 
mer Lord Montague had first suggested it to his wife, she 
affixed to it the condition, supposing it would prevent any 
unpleasant consequences. 

“It appeareth,” she said, “that Mistress Edith Mon- 
mouth, of whom I have heard excellent report, hath not 
favored thy suit; and meseems she was wise to speak of 
the difference of rank. Dost think thou canst not love the 
beautiful Lady Lilly? Away from court, and in thy society 
alone, she may be led by the divine Spirit to think and feel 
as thou dost. For this I have been praying. But my dear 
boy” — Lady Montague, overcome with emotion, fell upon 
his neck — “thou art all that is left to me, and I desire to 
see thee happy. Go to God, my son, for I know not how to 
advise thee.” 

Soon after this interview the young Lord Montague left 
for Antwerp on business, taking with him a few lines which 
his mother had written to Master Tyndale, in the hope that 
he might be able to see the Reformer ere his return. While 
in Antwerp he saw, Christopher Monmouth, who bade him 
hasten to Master Tyndale, as he was liable to be executed 
at any time. 

After a ride of eighteen miles on horseback. Lord Mon- 
tague reached the Castle of Vilvorde, where his father had 
been incarcerated so many years. It was a grim, impen- 
etrable fortress, after the model of the Bastile, which not 



VILVORDE CASTLE. (Page 289). 




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CHANGES. 


289 


long before had been completed at Paris. It had seven 
massive towers, connected by lower erections, and around 
it was a huge moat, spanned by three drawbridges.* 
For sixteen months Tyndale had been there imprisoned, 
suffering exceedingly during the winter from cold. Al- 
though he had triumphantly answered all the charges 
against himself, the imperial government determined he 
should die. Efforts in his behalf put forth by Henry and 
Cromwell had failed. The keeper on learning that his vis- 
itor was the son of his former prisoner, gave him a hearty 
welcome, but expressed deep sorrow and remorse at learning 
of his father’s death. Guiding him to Tyn dale’s cell, his 
lordship recognized in the dusky light the striking features 
of the Reformer, though much emaciated. They were 
lighted up with a sudden gleam of joy when the keeper 
pronounced the name “ Lord Montague,” but a look of dis- 
appointment and surprise succeeded as the visitor came 
nearer. “ My father is no more,” said the young man, as 
he took the prisoner’s hand, “and I have come in his stead, 
though unworthy, with my love and reverence, and a brief 
epistle from my mother.” 

“ During my imprisonment,” was the reply, “ I have 
heard of Lord Montague’s return, and eke after having 
been shut up in this very castle. Is his lady deprived of 
him so soon after their reunion, and had they a living son ? ” 
As he scanned the note by the dim light of the cell he ex- 
pressed great amazement. Gazing upon the young man, he 
asked, “Art thou the orphan whom I used to see at my 
friend, Mr. Monmouth’s? Thou Lord Montague! I con- 
gratulate thee as the child of such noble parents, and I con- 
gratulate the surviving lady as the mother of such a son, 
for before my arrest I heard concerning thee from Master 
Christopher Monmouth.” 

Lord Montague spoke to Master Tyndale of the numerous 
friends he had in England, and of their earnest prayers for 
his release. 


Demaus’s “ Tyndale,” p. 426. 


290 


THE BOY-LOLLABB. 


“ I doubt it not,” lie replied ; “ but I wot, from the mo- 
ment I was betrayed into the hands of the enemies of the 
Gospel, that there was no hope for me, sith multitudes in 
the emperor’s dominions who liave not maddened them a 
tithe so much as I have suffered death in the most cruel 
forms. But I have been long looking forward to this. 
Eight years ago I said, ‘ If they shall burn me they shall do 
none other thing than that I look for.’ ‘ There is none other 
way into the kingdom of life than through persecution and 
suffering of pain, and of very death, after the example of 
Christ.’ The hours are few that are allotted to me here. 
Yet I think not of myself, but of what I have lived for, 
and am to die for, — the general circulation of the Scrip- 
tures in the English tongue.” 

“ Oh, sir,” exclaimed the visitor, “ many think that event 
is near ! ” 

The eyes of the martyr shone. “Sayest thou so? I 
have heard that, though Queen Anne hath fallen a victim 
to the enemies of the Gospel, Queen Jane dares to be on 
the right side. God’s providence is mysterious. Why 
should I doubt that it will cause the Gospel to triumph, 
even by using the lawless passions of princes? My lord, 
you are surrounded by perils greater than when you were 
Hal, the waif. Be alway a friend of the Gospel. Com- 
mend me to the Brethren. Farewell.” 

The next day, just before he left Antwerp, Lord Mon- 
tague heard of Tyndale’s execution. He was first stran- 
gled, and then burned. When tied to the stake, he 
prayed, “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes.” His 
lordship and Christopher Monmouth were standing on one 
of the wharves at Antwerp, the former about to step on 
board a vessel bound for England, when the news was 
brought them by a servant of the keeper of Vilvorde 
Castle. After the messenger — who had not been able 
to keep back the tears — had left them, Christopher said, 
in a quivering voice, — 

“I can only repeat to your lordship the words of Dr. 


/ 


CHANGES. 291 

Barnes, who, I wis, will yet show his enemies that he is not 
the coward they take him for, ‘ To biirne inee, or to destroy 
mee, cannot so greatly profit them. For when I am dead, 
the sunne, and the moone, the starres, and the elements, 
water and fire, yea, and also stones, shall defende this 
cause agaynst them, rather than the veritie should perishe.’ ” 

“The doctor speaketh truly,” replied his companion. 
“When will men believe his words?” 

“ When all the persecutors are dead,” rejoined Chris- 
topher. “ When Sir Thomas More died I almost thought 
the whole race were extinct. Nathless, enow of his devoted 
followers remain, I trow. I will tell your lordship what 
Luther saith of him. Having been asked if Sir Thomas 
suffered for the Gospel’s sake, he replied, ‘ By no means, for 
he was a very notable tyrant. He was the king’s chiefest 
counsellor, a very learned and a very wise man. He shed 
the blood of many innocent Christians that confessed the 
Gospel, and plagued and tormented them like an execu- 
tioner.’ Is’t not strange he suffered a violent death before 
Master Tyndale? Many a duel they had, in which rae- 
thinks Master Tyndale proved more than a match for Sir 
Thomas.” 

“I have heard Sir Thomas More extol Master Tyndale,” 
Lord Montague said, “as ‘a man of right good living, 
studious and well learned in Scripture, and looked and 
preached holily.’ I always deemed Sir Thomas sincere, 
and he died upon a point of conscience. Thou knowest 
Master Horton saith Protestants and devout Catholics will 
yet be burnt at the same stake.” 

“By your lordship’s leave. Master Horton is not alway 
right,” said Christopher, “as in your own case. I trow 
nobody opened his eyes wider than he when it was known 
who thou art. An it had not been for him I should not 
have supposed thee Cardinal Wolsey’s son. I thought such 
an oracle could not be mistaken. But, as I was about to 
say, an Master Horton be a true prophet, I hope I may 
choose the Catholic to burn with me. I would, Hal, — 


292 


THE BOY-^LOLLARD. 


excuse mej your lordship, — Meg More might burn with 
thee, an thou must burn, sith she would once have burned 
thee, and me, and Edith.” Christopher’s face was as round 
and good-natured as ever, and as he turned it upon his 
friend’s, he continued, “I fear me I have displeased you. 
Verily you ought to know more of Sir Thomas More and 
his daughter than I, and your charity is larger than mine ; 
I will unsay my words.” 

The two friends parted for a short period, both hopeful, 
and not aware of what awaited them. Other wise men 
beside Master Horton foresaw the time not far distant 
when no good man would be safe, only the wicked ; when 
it would be in a sense true that — 

“One might scoff the stars, and stand secure 
In every crime but one — the being pure.’’ 


CHAPTER XXX. 


BEST FOR AWHILE. 


As sable night returns a shining morrow, 

And days of joy ensue sad nights of sorrow, 

The way to bliss lies not on beds of down, 

And he that had no cross deserves no crown. 

Quarles. 

L ord Montague on landing at London first called 
at the Monmouth mansion. He found the family to- 
gether in the private parlor. When he had communicated 
the sad intelligence. of Tyndale’s death not a word was 
spoken till Sir Humphrey said, “ Let us pray ” ; and, as all 
knelt, he poured out his soul in sorrow, as ten years before, 
with the New Testament in his hand, he had in joy. At 
times he could hardly proceed, seemingly contrasting the 
patient and serene courage of the martyr with his own re- 
creancy. The responses of Captain Loots to his penitential 
utterances were brief and emphatic, although the captain had 
become a new man since his patient endurance of the rack. 
As the company rose there was a trustful peace in Edith’s 
blue eyes. Lord Montague lingered, but Sir Humphrey 
said, — 

“We will not be so selfish as to detain your lordship 
longer. I ween your lordship’s mother is impatiently wait- 
ing, this being her first separation from thee sithence the 
death of her noble husband.” 

“ And another lady is impatiently waiting withal,” said 
Lady Monmouth, with a smile. “We have been wanting to 
congratulate your lordship on what we have heard; — the 
union of such excellent families as the Montagues and the 
Hunsdons,” 


293 


294 


THE BOY-LOLLABD. 


“ Both lovers of the good cause,” remarked Edith, calmly, 
with the heroic look in her face. 

“We wis what Hal was whilom,” continued her mother. 
“ The change in his circumstances hath but linked the nobility 
of his character to that of his new name.” 

A modest blush suffused Lord Montague’s expressive fea- 
tures. “If I have kept clear of the vices so common to 
young men,” he replied, “ I owe it largely, under God, to the 
teachings of this family and of the Mores. I hope I shall 
not disappoint you, my dear friends, sith a title brings with 
it temptations. Certes, I shall love you with all my heart,” 
he faltered, as with some confusion he took his departure. 

Lady Montague was deeply affected at the news of Master 
Tyndale’s execution. So were Lord and Lady Hunsdon. 
Lady Lilly expressed her regret, with some coldness as Lord 
Montague thought. Since his father’s death his lordship 
when in her society had never been without embarrassment, 
though she could not but be attractive to him. He found 
her acquainted with several languages; fond of poetry; a 
lover of paintings, of which in the Hunsdon mansion there 
were some of the masterpieces of Raphael and Michael 
Angelo ; with a bright and lively wit, which, like her ill-fated 
mistress, made her the life of the company; but she was 
vain and fond of admiration. The crowd of young nobles 
often attending her would have made Lord Montague jealous 
if he had been a lover. Yet she complained of the dulness 
at St. Albans, and often visited the court, in whose festivities, 
which were as numerous and gay as before, she mingled, and 
— if report spoke true — flirted with the gallants more freely 
than at home. She lavished her sweetest smiles, however, 
upon Lord Montague, though giving him no opportunity to 
be alone with her, or make any explanation, while it was 
generally understood that they were affianced. Perhaps she 
saw that her charms had not yet brought him to her feet. 

The young head of the Montague household daily observed 
family devotions; and often calling together his tenants 
gave them religious instruction, Dick following at his re- 


'rest for awhile. 


295 


quest with some practical words. He learned to prize the 
head servant more and more, kneeling with him and his little 
family in their cottage, and even opening his heart to him. 
Dick once asked him respectfully if it was true that he 
would marry Lady Lilly. When he replied with a sigh by 
asking whether in the circfimstances there would be an alter- 
native, his faithful servant answered with boldness that a 
covenant which he did not help make was not binding on 
him ; and the blessing of heaven would not attend such a 
union. Lord Montague nodded, but said nothing. Ilis con- 
science confirmed the words of Dick ; so did his mother’s, to 
whom Dick had not failed to utter them, although she was 
still loth to give up the old cherished idea, and the realiza- 
tion of her husband’s last expressed wish. But what was he 
to do? His mother could only say again, “Ask God, my 
son.” 

Lord Montague took his mother to court, where they were 
graciously received by the king and his new" queen. He took 
her also to the Monmouth mansion, w’here a warm friendship 
sprung up between Lady Montague and the Monmouths. 

Heni-y was at length induced by Cranmer and Cromw^ell 
to sanction a translation of the Scriptures to be bought and 
read within his realm. This was Tyndale’s translation 
mainly, — Miles Coverdale supplying what was wanting. 
The martyr’s prayer, “ Lord, open the King of England’s 
eyes,” had already begun to be answered. Lady Montague 
and her son were seated in the private parlor of the Mon- 
mouths w^hen Sir Humphrey entered with the wonderful 
news and several copies of the entire Bible in his hand. He 
gave one to each person present. The two families then 
knelt, but Sir Humphrey w^as not able to speak. For the . 
first time they held in their hand the whole Bible, translated 
from the original tongues, and sanctioned by the king. This 
was worth all the toils, and all the sufferings, and all the 
martyrdoms which they had known. 

At about this time there arrived at the Hunsdon mansion 
a distant relative of the family, who had been engaged in 


296 


THE BOY-LOLLARB. 


putting down the great Catholic insurrection at the North. 
He was a gentleman with whom we have had some acquaint- 
ance, — Sir George Templeton. His easy, good-natured face 
and manners and conversation enlivened the Montague as 
well as the Hunsdon family. He heartily congratulated Lord 
Montague. 

“ Thou wast ahvay a lucky dog, my lord,” he said, “ but 
faith I never anticipated for thee such good fortune as this. 
Why didst thou let that j^i'etty gypsy, that rich Spanish 
duchess in embryo, sli]) through thy fingers? Well, some- 
body’s fingers have succeeded in holding her, I wis. You 
look astonied, my lord, and curious. Ha, ha, ha ! In one 
of our battles with the rebels I took a young Spanish noble- 
man prisoner whom I had often seen at Catherine’s court. 
I was about to put him to death with the other prisoners ac- 
cording to the king’s command, when a young lady closely 
veiled succeeded in entering my tent. As she uncovered her 
face I recognized to my amazement Lady Zaida de Mont- 
pensier, who, throwing herself at my feet, besought me to 
save him. I could not resist her entreaties and her distress 
any more than once whilom when thou wast Hal, — ha, ha, 
ha ! — and promised to do all I could, obtaining afterward a 
royal order for his release in consideration of my services. 
I never saw them more. In a day or two a stranger put into 
my hand a costly jewel. It hath been bruited the nobleman 
was her accepted lover, whom she soOn set sail with for 
Spain, and married. Faith let him beware lest he anger her, 
sith she may draw her stiletto upon him.” 

Lord Montague, who had listened with the greatest inter- 
est, said, “I supposed. Sir George, Lady Zaida left the 
country very soon after the death of Catherine.” 

“ So did we all, my lord, sith her uncle was dead, and the 
court was broken up. Thou hast heard, mayhap, that Kim- 
bolton Castle, where the poor ex-queen died, hath been 
deemed haunted sithence. Her ghost, it is said, hath been 
seen in the twilight and at midnight, in a long white dress 
and with a royal crowu on her head, gliding through the 


REST FOR AWHILE. 


297 


rooms and corridors. I opine that it was no other tlian 
this gypsy duchess making the castle a hiding-place until 
she should join her lover, in victory to form a part of the 
court of Lady Mary, or in defeat to flee to Spain. Ha, ha, 
ha ! I would have given the jewel she sent me to have had 
one glimpse of that bewitching creature transformed into a 
ghost.” 

Lord Montague was one day walking outside his grounds 
when a voice behind him said, roughly, “ Stop, my lord ; we 
have a little affair to settle between us.” 

Supposing he was about to be attacked, he drew his 
sword, and turning around encountered Sir George Tem- 
pleton, with his sword in his hand, his naturally good- 
natured face flushed and angry. 

“Is this pleasantry. Sir George?” he inquired. “Pardon 
me for not recognizing your A^oice, not having heard it 
speak in that tone before.” 

“ Such pleasantry, my lord, as a man feels when his be- 
trothed hath been stolen from him.” 

“ I understand you not.” 

“Then your thoughts must be woolgathering, my lord, 
and you need a good stroke of my sword to bring them 
home.” 

Lord Montague stood amazed. He thought of Edith 
Monmouth. But Sir George had long ceased to pay atten- 
tion to her. Then he thought of Lady Lilly. His antag- 
onist had already made a pass at him, which he avoided, 
Avhen he asked, “ Is’t Lady Lilly of Avhom you speak?” 

“ My sword hath brought you to your senses, my lord. 
I shall not dally Avith thee. Thou knewest that lady and 
I Avere aflianced.” 

“ Certes, I did not,” said Lord Montague, solemnly. “ I 
will take my oath if need be.” 

“Thou needst not do it,” rejoined his antagonist. “I be- 
lieve one whose word Avas never called in question. I have 
just been informed by Lady Lilly’s parents that ye AA^ere 
betrothed in your cradles under one condition. I sup- 


298 


TUE BOY-LOLLAED. 


posed thou knewest that condition had been fulfilled, sith 
our betrothal came to the knowledge of the court, though 
for some reason the lady did not reveal it to her parents. 
Nathless, my lord, our quarrel is not yet ended. Meseems 
thou mayst not be willing to give up this of 

beauty.” 

“ Sir George Templeton,” cried Lord Montague, “ I am 
not afraid of thee, but I will not fight in other than a just 
cause. I renounce all claim to the hand of Lady Lilly.” 

“ By my soul,” replied Sir George, sheathing his sword, 
“then I have no strife with your lordship. Nathless, me- 
seems your lordship giveth up the lady easier than I would 
have done.” 

“ Let me assure you,” said Lord Montague, “ there have 
been no protestations of affection between us, though we 
have been intimate, and our predetermined union hath been 
generally considered certain. Methinks Lady Lilly hath 
not treated me well in not informing me of her previous 
engagement.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Sir George; “a loving couple, 
verily, and a merry wedding ye would have had. An Lady 
Lilly hath been trying the power of her charms on thee and 
others we will not blame her. We must allow ladies a 
little liberty, we take so much ourselves. But an any man 

doth hint at a blot on her fair fame,” He put his 

hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“I as well as thou would chastise him,” put in Lord 
Montague. 

“Then we are friends again,” said Sir George, and he 
grasped his companion warmly by the hand. 

Lord and Lady Hunsdon were grieved and disappointed 
when Sir George, after this interview, made known to them 
his pre-engagement to their daughter, though they did not 
withhold their assent. Whether, or how much. Lady Lilly 
was disappointed, nobody knew. Sir George Templeton 
was not so young nor of such high rank as Lord Montague, 
but he was wealthier, and had acquired some military 


BEST FOR AWHILE. 


299 


renown. She was indignant that Lord Montague gave her 
up so easily. Her vanity had been gratified at the thought 
of making a conquest of such a handsome young nobleman. 
Sir George having gone to the wars, she thought it doubtful 
whether he would ever come back. If he did there might 
be a few blows, to be sure ; but was she not worth fight- 
ing for ? 

It was not long before Lord Montague turned his face 
toward London, his horse making quicker time than ever 
before. Entering the Monmouth mansion, he found Edith 
alone in the room where they had spent so many hours 
together in pleasant study. Pressing the hand which she 
joyfully extended to him, he said, — 

“ Dear Edith, with your leave I am about to speak of a 

matter in which my happiness is involved ” He paused 

a moment. 

Noticing his excited and agitated manner, she said, anx- 
iously, “Permit me, my lord, to call my parents. You 
were wont to go to them for advice.” 

“First let me have thine, dear Edith,” still retaining her 
hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw. “I am 
honorably released from Lady Lilly. I find her pre-engaged 
to Sir George Templeton, and this cancels the contract 
made over our cradles. And I come to tell you I have 
always loved you, and to lay myself and all I have at your 
feet.” 

Edith trembled so much that he stretched out an arm to 
support her. But quickly recovering herself, she gently 
rejected his proffered aid, though still allowing her hand to 
remain in his. “ Lord Montague,” she said, as she looked 
with her clear, blue eyes, in which there arose a lurking 
fondness she tried to repress, “ your penetration hath made 
known to you, doubtless, that I have already fought one 
battle on your account. You could not be so long in our 
family, holding such relation to me, without my becoming 
strongly attached. But Hal, — nay, forgive me, my lord, — 
you have been introduced to a class very different from 


300 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


mine, where you are to select the sharer of your rank and 
fortunes, one more worthy than Lady Lilly has proved, it 
seems.” The old heroic look returned, yet she did not 
withdraw her hand. 

“Dearest Edith,” he replied, passionately, “I love only 
you. I have mingled with the class of which you speak, 
but with a heart aching for the sympathy which only 
you can give. Why utter such cruel words ? Do we not 
love the same Lord, the same Gospel, the same Breth- 
ren, the same cause ? Are we not one in religion, in suf- 
fering, ay, and one in taste, ' — in everything that would 
make a happy union?” 

The fond look came back again. “But thy mother, 
sweet, lovely Lady Montague — I would rather die than 
displease her.” And the heroic look began to threaten a 
return. 

“My mother,” rejoined Lord Montague, “but a short 
time sithence declared her deep love for you ; that she was 
ready to welcome you as a daugliter; and your refusal, my 
dearest Edith, to accede to my wishes would be as great a 
disappointment to herself as to me.” 

The fond look deepened in those blue eyes, and irradiated 
the whole face, when he clasped her to his bosom, and fer- 
vently kissed her lips and brow. 

In a few months another lady graced Montague Hall, 
who was beloved of her husband, of the family and house- 
hold, and of the tenants. The nobility of the region, with 
the exception of Lady Lilly, now the wife of Sir George 
Templeton, were attracted by her beauty and loveliness. 
As children were born Lord Montague sent for Master 
Horton, who was glad to leave the court to become the 
tutor of the children of his former pupil. 

Few households of that period received such training as 
did that of Lord Montague. Though it resembled Sir 
Thomas More’s in some respects, it contrasted with this 
famous household in others. While many of the same 
moral and religious truths were inculcated, the great doc- 


REST FOR AWHILE. 


SOI 


trines of the Reformation, in distinction from Catholic tra- 
ditions, were held up, and a suitable freedom of opinion 
and expression allowed. The nurse, who had become the 
quiet and amiable servant, soon learned to read, when a 
new world dawned upon her. Holy Scripture was now 
often in her hand, while her lips breathed the prayer of the 
penitent. She made no excuse for her past misconduct. 
There was too much truth in the story of her connection 
with Wolsey before she first belonged to the Montague 
household. But she found forgiveness in the same Being 
who granted it to “ the woman which was a sinner,” saying 
to the nurse also, while experiencing a like sorrow, “ Thy sins 
are forgiven. Thy faith hath saved thee ; go in peace.” 

Lord Montague heard of Zaida as married, and a reigning 
beauty in the Spanish court. There were whisperings there 
of her gypsy blood, especially when she welcomed some 
gypsies to her grounds, showing particular attention to a 
grand-looking man who was their chief. Though outwardly 
a strict Catholic, she was without religious convictions. She 
did not love the Inquisition, yet spoke no word against it, 
and cared not if any who had displeased her felt its pitiless 
grasp. The friendship of Lord Montague and his wife for 
Margaret Roper continued till her early and lamented death 
in 1544. The disconsolate widower never married again. 
It is sad to relate that, though he possessed some admirable 
traits, one of which was generosity to the poor, he devel- 
oped into a violent persecutor of those who proclaimed 
sentiments once his own. The marriage of Christopher 
Monmouth with Elizabeth Loots soon succeeded that of 
Lord Montague with Edith. These four persons, after 
their parents had passed on to a better world, — peacefully, 
and not through fire, which was the lot of so many, — were 
in frequent peril for Christ’s sake. But King Henry, on 
account of the affection which he always felt for his former 
favorite singer, protected them. In the reign of Mary, 
however, they were obliged to flee the country, but returned 
when Elizabeth succeeded to the throne. Neither of them 


302 


THE BOY-LOLLARD. 


was called to wear the crown of martyrdom. Their lot — 
since they were lovers of a pure Gospel — was, for several 
years after their marriage, comj^aratively peaceful for those 
troublous times. On a table in the j^arlor of Montague 
Hall, where the family often sat, were the Latin New Tes- 
tament of Erasmus, elegantly bound, and a beautiful copy 
of the entire Scripture in English, translated princij)ally by 
Tyndale, lying side by side. They were presented to them 
on the occasion of their marriage, the former by Margaret 
Roper, and the latter by Christopher Monmouth. And in 
some secret place — secret not to the family, not to the 
household, but to the outside world — was carefully kept a 
manuscript copy of John’s Gospel by Wickliffe. 


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